Wary of the worth of a moment in mortality,

consider this from

everafter. This
now
right
thought, breath of fresh
heirloom memory thread for ever more,

for what a measure of attention spent here
is worth, in terms of how we
spend hours predicting next tic
of being being us humans, wait, we or us, is
there here an ob-sub
top-bottom,
in-out
on
emerging dis-asterisk-ic fawking aural tic

me-chanical, i can-icles,

grinning like a fool, without the fool's feeling
seeping to the surface.

Each fool may take for granted hearing ears,
I say I think is true, so
I let it be true,
I believe.
y'know.

--- Leave me say, I had help. At the unbelief stage,

--- in old age, I mean, being dared to pray,
aloud
so all may hear. In 2019, that's louder than any Muza whatchallah
minaret con
cinco de-ift instancio
todo dia

WHAT LIES DO I BELIEVE?

First, I believed I knew what you believe believe means,
as an activity
we manage.

So, an answer,

it seemed, but there are all manner of unaccounted for
idle words, piling up to critical
mass

Each word ever formed to hold a meaning fast for use in futures,
past the edge of
our bubble,
dear reader, ami Am I ity or enmity --- Can't your Great Mind Requiring

Proof Positive Points Pretend?

Good, let's pretend to be.

In this garden,
This beautiful creation I've blessed with my wisdom and experience,
I see in dimensions no one else can.
My third eye gleams in the sunlight, glowing and glistening like a perfectly cut jade.

In the distance, I see my goal.
It breeches the soil and reaches for the sun's warm embrace,
Escaping the mortal coil without ever leaving its vessel.

I approach.
Through the travel, the soil beneath me turns to salt and cracks.
The bees turn to wisps of a time once forgotten,
The butterflies, ghosts of a forgotten era.
The sun and Moon become a single entity forever fused in a dance older than time itself.
The sky turns dark and bleeds attempting to warn me of the horrors protecting my ambitions.
My claim to my destiny becomes shaken.

I power forward, blinded only in the physical world.
And as I approach the apple hanging gracefully from the tree
The snake will whisper its temptations,
And God will scream and tear the heavens asunder, seeking my cursed flesh and blood.
And as I pluck my ambitions and wisdom, digesting it and the truth whole,
The corners of my stone eyes will crack,
My third eye will screech,
And I will watch as both God and the serpent battle over my intentions.

I am The Prophet.
My destiny is written by me and me alone,
And all those who take claim to my soul will be cut down by my power.

I am The Prophet.
Where my gifts and talents, ambitions and goals, and curses and vices originate
Is unknown
But these are answers that do not matter.

I will tame the serpentine prince.
I will take claim to the power your God once stole from me.
I will refuse the sun its moment to set, plunging myself in eternal sunset.
I will embrace the moon as my lover,
And I will not allow you, nor anyone, nor anything power.

I am The Prophet.
I will scan the horizon with my peripheral vision
And blind myself with the sun's direct effects
To strengthen the sight of my soul.

All my old writing was as accurate as premonition, as if I wanted a tragedy to JOLT ME from my sleep.

The silver lining is I suppose I got what I wanted,
it just wasn't the tragic self harm I dreamed of.
More like a tragic mistake that destroyed the boy I once was, and the girl I once knew.

What a cruel world we live in
A world led by Satan
A world so confused,
that is so filled with ruse

Oh, you think, at least there is a little peace
But there’s still wars in the middle east
The poor starve, while the rich feast
Abortion rates have increased

What a horrible place to be
Where people are so unruly
and sin abound truly
Why can’t anyone see, maybe I’m just an anomaly

The world’s falling apart
and no one realizes
The hatred’s off the charts
before our own eyes

But what can we do in the midst of this crisis
Well it’s prophecy, gotta wait till it’s accomplished
Until then, we’ll follow Christ and do what is righteous
So in judgement before the Lord, we will be blameless

To the prophet,
the passivity of consciousness is exhausting.

The veil,
the biases,
understanding which is only seen with human eyes.

That is consciousness.

Consciousness obscures, because it is human.

The prophet sleeps, exhausted from listening but not hearing.

The prophet needs the soul to be active.
The activity of detachment.
God has a voice, not to be heard by consciousness.
Consciousness is to be human—
what the human sees,
what the human understands,
what happens when the human is aware,
the veil of consciousness that is the passivity of silence,
which the prophet must put away to hear.

The prophet seeks the purity of Creation,
to feel the moments
before the mist outside the garden descended to reveal nakedness.
The prophet needs to unknow what living has made the prophet acquire.

The prophet sleeps to strip away anything that is not Love.
To exist in ultimate vulnerability, unprotected in body and mind.
What remains when the prophet sleeps?

There God inhabits the prophet’s dreams.
Revealed by the unconscious.
Symbols etched in clarity,
dreams are not a cipher.
Asleep, unburdened, actively unconscious, what is left?
The prophet sleeps, and the world vanishes.
What happens to all the prophet loves when the prophet’s eyes are closed?

Those things are gone,
but Love remains.
Pure.
Love for what consciousness obscures.
The prophet dreams because that is where the prophet can be found
by God.
Loving God
and knowing God.

To the prophet,
dreams change consciousness
because the filter of consciousness is ephemeral,
but the sleeping, dreaming prophet
attaches to the eternal.

I know what I am to become.
Revel in the gazes casting me insane
Only I have seen the future from the pavement,
hidden like a painting stolen from its frame

This is my autobiography!
A fluttering, open book caught up in the wind
Telling my story faster than it can be written.
A thriller all the way until the end

Sitting still upon the throne,
Beauty never fades away,
But the utter dark can leave a mark,
That calls chaos back to play.

Rotting one, the one below,
reflects the unseen side of glowing,
And the eternal snake is ever awake,
On the burnt side of that coin.

We know the price of death so far,
As the ferry man is rowing,
But not as much as a glimpse to nature of simpler things
The future, and the price of knowing.

around midnight pools
   ancients gazed
          past the flickering,
                 fleeting present
                         peered incredulously
                                                   into the future
                                                    ………..and marveled
                                                                             at our ineptitude