Where we are is all we can know, all we should know and all we need know. Who we are comes along with what we are to where we are. We must remember, recall our kinship before the act concludes. Our dreams are the gauge to our knowing and our waking dreams deliver their sweet reverie to this reception with joy. And to our amazement truth has always been waiting beneath our feet for us to sense her Love, for us to awaken to our great fortune.
Awake! It is time to come together as one and occupy the eartH, Home and Heaven, with heart-signs that read Love, hands that hold her dear like we hold our precious children, arms that reach out like machines of affection and legs in urgent motion toward her care.
Where did we imagine we were? Where do we imagine we are?
Who did we imagine ourselves to be? Who do we imagine ourselves to be?
What did we imagine we were here for, thievery, rape and war? What do we imagine we are here for?
Oh! The gravest fault lies in our lack of loving imaginations! The severest sin belongs to our thoughts that swim around as if their gods, spirits without the countenance of Love. The greatest tragedy now roars into its final act and is leaving us breathless with its indiscriminate death. We must awaken before the curtain falls and our monster rises to douse the light found waning upon the horizon of eternal Love.
If we choose to imagine otherwise, we’ll have forgone the only story worth repeating…
~
Wind, rain, forest, stars, dust...
I believe we had best prepare them to quell their rage, said the wind.
We must ready them for an infuriated ocean, said the rain.
We’ll steady quaking limbs ahead of death, said the forest.
We’ll pray with our loftiness for man’s Love, said the stars.
Our instruction’s come too late to breathe, said the dust.
I believe...
~
Steak knife, orange, half peeled, coffee, smoky morning, moved inside to write, clock read 11:11...
We are animals. We’ve gone too far.
Peace cannot breathe air into our waters. Love’s unable to recover from its suicide. Torture and war, their oppression, failing too. Goodness pushes its scent like a petal’s breath in the wind.
The clock reads 11:11? What’s "too far"?
The scent, a reminder of her beauty. Eleven eleven. That’s too near. A mirror… for Love to hold. We’ll need more time! Our reflection, our fortune, our Love. We’ve gone too far and I've waited too long. Our regret, our sadness, our complicity. Yes. Our greed, our lovelessness, our death. Something is coming.
Haze trippin’ in the morning, Something’s going to happen. ...11:11.
II-II-II.
IIIIII.
IIIII.
IIII.
III.
II.
I.
Too many I.
Perhaps I arrived a minute too early, or a second...
Steak knife, orange, half peeled, coffee, smoky morning, moved inside to write, clock read 11:11........2011 © by mark prime
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