It is through the pathological:
The presented image of the journey
as being that of the road, less traveled--
a foundation of sand,  presented
as being that of bedrock..
It is the ancient shortcut's  need
to prop up it's own deception
that is of that which harbors  the greatest judgement
        of all that is upright
and it is upon these agenda-ed, subjective pallettes
that the pastels are mixed and arranged,

as the landscape of the world's reality
becomes,  painted.

... And the skin opened up  into wide, cavernous cracks..
and there was a hissing sound--     a burning smell..
                               not unlike that  of a calf-branding  
on an everyday, working  South Dakota cattle ranch--

The feathering smoke, curling around the ancient stubs
                              of that which is  as of yet,  de-horned.
And there was a raging scream--
yet, one almost as if harmononiously intertwined
with the guttural moans of a pleasure-chant:
    that which is borne.. not of victimization,
               but of deep, consensual agreement

   And,  against this kind of liaison  between
flesh and death,  all the power of love's ache
becomes   a l m o s t   as if  nothing other
than a whisper...  

                          almost.

Round,  wavewashed rocks
strewn upon a beach of sand
Becoming strong, granite cliffs
rising above an ever rolling sea
of tall grass, borne on wide-open prairie
drawing towards itself eagles of all kinds
and ocean-bound egrets, their bellies
filled, with fish
the windborne silts  of distant lands,
finding refuge in the crags
filling in the years, of ancient definition
and throughout aeons, of forming
and unforming within the wild
brutal winds:  grinding, pulverizing
granite, back down to pebble
majestic prairie, back in to sand..
and then, back down  into
windblown silt

now circling around the feet of a child,
(one that pokes at dead things  with a stick)

But within the silt, are the pebbles
and so, down on her knees  she forms
a pile with her hands.. an ancient burial mound,
stands up, and with a clap of her
little hands, wipes a millenia of dust away
stick, tucked under arm-- she walks away:

as silt-covered pebble, become  once again

Round,  wavewashed rocks
strewn upon a beach of sand
Becoming strong, granite cliffs
rising above an ever rolling sea
of tall grass, borne on wide-open prairie

Drawing towards itself eagles of all kinds
and ocean-bound egrets, their bellies
filled, with fish
(the wind borne silts  of distant lands,
finding refuge in the crags
filling in the years, of ancient definition....)

Untethered at times
but, only in short
spurts do you sprint.

I see you,  grazing the
sweetgrass-edges, green and lush;
such a perfect circle
you carve--

Peg, spiked in dry dirt;
the clanking hobble, has you
starved.

Dragging chain, uprooting succulents
scraping bare the dry ground
while beautiful, unfenced;  is
the grassland-  all around

You were built to be wild, love..  

    Wild.

the true nature of the beast

~
It  c h o se
to consider itself
made complete--
in its own self-- apart
from relationship,
from connection..
a p a rt  from  a n y
attachment to glory
and so,
it found itself
from with-inside itself
made complete
in its utter incompleteness.
~  ~
Beings-- created for
growth- back in to into glory
were built to be
made complete
and so it roams
the face of the Earth--
looking for ways to
complete itself..
an attachment.
~  ~  ~
Life, in itself
has a built-in safeguard
hedge of protection
in every-thing on Earth.
But we,
who have undergone
severe trauma
at a young age
have had that  h e d ge
   torn from us
(as the  d i s m em b e r i ng
of our souls took place) ..
and so that which roams
searching for its
addiction--
for its attachment...
then finds.

and then attaches

lying to itself each
time--
that it can gain
t h e   f i x
the indwelt-access-
back into perfection--
the one for it
that never-was
that never will-be--
its way back into glory.

It knows that,
so it attaches
with a vengeance.

~  ~  ~  ~
You, quisling--
only the power of
deception do
you have, ******.
You do not grieve
the loss of eternity--
because, for you-
it is unobtainable. ******
You do not feel the need
for Redemption
because, you  o n ly
know the word contempt.
And yet, wholly
unable to feel self-contempt,
you only know one action--

d e v o u r.

We will transcend
your attachment
your usury
your devouring--

Gnawing our bodies away from our spirits--
a   d i s m e m b e r i ng
making us believe
that is all we have ever known;
And making our bodies
a d d i c t ed  to you-
in whatever form
that may be
as if they were
built for nothing
but  y o u--

to prop up your own emptiness.

We will  f i l l  back up
with Love.
And then you'll be the one
who will be ******.
******