The door to love stands open. Wait. Happiness is the will of Love, it does not include any meaning of death. The door to love stands open. Wait. Happiness is the will of Love, it does not include any meaning of death, save for our own preconceived imaginative notions of a Love that can create this eartH, this sun, this moon, this atmosphere, this universe and humankind, Love, laughter, trees, eagles, dogs, cats, the moon, the sun, the stars, the darkness, the light, and even death which gives rebirth over and over and over and over until death has no meaning, and we strip it of nutrients and poison her water and its air, trees, soil and Love and all the while humankind imagining themselves as the writers of the words of Love…
No. My friends, we are all the children of Love, bar none. We are all beholden to the eartH, some call it the original gift to man, but I say it is so much older than that, it is as old as Love, as old and true as Life eternal, beneath our feet, and anyone that can know that, is Love. There is no room for death. Love, is of everything. Love is everything. He is not a he and she is not a she, those are human labels, a limited scope of where we are.
Our beliefs are settling an old score that’s long outlasted knowledge, that’s using our dreams against us. Our belief is secondary to where we are. Animals first, spirit, second. We must know and remember where we are before we lose sight of who we are. (Why couldn’t we serve the eartH as our beholden?) We, instead, had to go and put words in Love’s mouth, assuming that Love has a mouth. We had to go and play Love instead of recognizing the fundamental nature of Love, humbleness. If we had just realized her potential at remembering where she is and compared that with our realization of where we are, we might have seen the truth most near.
Love, Everything, Life... of which death is not an end, but merely a beginning, has no expiration date, doesn’t go bad, and has the flow of Love, an imperfect perfection, the most mind-boggling work of art that man has ever seen or could ever fathom, let alone master, or should I say be master of. We cannot be the masters, not if we’re the stewards of Love…
We have forgotten who we are!
We have forgotten what we are!
We have forgotten where we are!
Echo…
© 2011 by mark prime