Monday, January 27th, 2020

The crux of spiritual efflorescence originates from the seat of the soul. The self is the nexus to transcendence. Humanity has historically looked outside of itself for the change it hopes to sire.
        
We must ameliorate our ailed cognition before our words can wax healing. When we genuinely ease the suffering within, light shall exude & emanate from our entities. Therefore, introspection, a spiritual mandate, is enquired from the firmaments.
      
Though pain can at times burnish a fervid sting upon our sensory crux, we must allow this to penetrate us fully. Before the healing can genuinely burgeon, angst must take its course. Moreover, layers of hurt must be processed before reaching our luminescent heart.
      
The Heavensward loves us aeonically so: Jah, the Cosmo- Plexus of Empyreal Love. Therefore, trust that in the silence of solitude, our spirits will be dovetailed with the Most High God. The Great Apothecary knows our maladies. The God of Freedom is also conscious of the instant upon which to unfurl manumission.
      
Liberty, or much of freedom, finds its inception upon the Mind's Sky. How can we be free unless we truly fathom it to be? What a fallacy, a probabilistic impossibility! Without awareness, one cannot seize that which is rightfully —their birthright.
      
Trust that you are free and always be just so. When you do, no soul will be able to expostulate otherwise. Belief, therefore, is power, is emancipation.
      
Love endlessly. Liberty never leaves the one who bathes in the Baptistery of Esprit d' Amour. Know your worthiness to honor, heartsease, what's more, the grace, the virtue, & the excellency of life. Carry on, surrender naught, fight the fine fight, run fully the race. —Se' lah.


Rise Heavensward,

Transcend fear & doubt,

Banish all hesitation,

Elysium is Within,

we picnic during solstice,
neon-chartreuse vertigo
vision morphs and bends,
we're weightless, astral high
in constant ego death,
eyes so lunar dilated
bits of stars surround us
on the f*cking moon

seven violent truffles
i’ve been high for so long
i rise, thirteen a.m.
in a drab and dreary coma
when i take another sip,
like a wilting lilac-
then spring begins so soon

everything inanimate
speaking in slow tongues
living and observing
from their place of immobility

slow kisses to your skin,
it melts on my lips quickly
like cathedral waxes
in the carmine breeze

everything is alive,
sobriety is so silent
we get high on the roof,
an ashen rocked collision
seven violet tablets
violent constellation
vibrant vein pulsation,
euphoric crystal lines
a new cosmic collusion,
peripheral discernment
we ascend to highest heavens,
just to plummet to the sea.