Monday, April 23, 2012

Revelations & Awakenings

I peered into the clouds from a terrace and an emerald sword was piercing the heavens, the heavens usually so distant formed a cocoon onto which the lights of the neon gods projected their pollution as if a battle of wills were at play. Who is servant and who is master and I to arbitrate between the contestants. But I am no arbitrator merely an observer trying to discern a reality, and to any delusional mind the inhabitants of the earth the sirens calling out from below whirling through the streets and reverberating all the way up and out to celestial realms were sufficient proof that it was they who dictated their own perverse destinies… but I stood from without burdened with the knowledge of their erroneous plague, burdened as if an idol upon a cross, struggling as my ancestors and the fathers of my fathers with a Name. A name ineffable and yet indelibly marked upon my very core as an anchor, as a root, as a tether keeping me hinged in an unhinged construction we relate to as world. It was me that the masters were battling over as they do over the souls of all men, men created from the material earth, men created with the breath of the Divine. And as I saw the distortions drip down my face and crawl out of the gullet I compelled them away so that I may truly withdraw from their presence and enter into that of Another’s. The sanctification of times are the keys to the universe and the means of interaction with Transcendence. They are life and well of sustenance transmitted in a symbol-laden machine emergent through the eras and as crystallized by the sons of prophets in the Iron Age. Were it not for them I would have no license, with sealed lips and no invitation to praise. Dust standing before the sublime daring to enunciate a syllable, an offense damn near killable. Yet they reached my hands, so that they may bathe in the tears of newfound realizations. Wave upon wave rippling through my being, pulsing with a masochistic pleasure in the joys of tearing down dilapidated floorboards that had grown cherished. Nothing, nothing, nothing… just fleeting and moment. Flotsam and jetsam obfuscating an eternal treasure. A treasure not mine and yet with grace flowing upon me. A storehouse of unadulterated light from its origins, no trappings, no designs, no egos and crimes. Prostration before a true Master and Lord of Peace, a barefoot step back against the comforts of man. A knock at the door, and two dark angels inquire “do you know this man?” to which “of course, he’s my brother!” and a new step in the journey makes its mark in the evening with the solace of one corpse granted blissful resurrection…

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