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I’m Telling You These Words are not Mine Own

I’m telling you these words are not mine own. They are of me but so are you and you and you and you and all and everything. Bring the cymbal crashing to heighten the suffering that needn’t ever have been. The scribe: I have been called to speak the next. Oh, Bach lift me out of this hell of my making!

Bring Love home. On your tongues and in your hearts bring Love home. In your belief and in your humbleness, in your walk, in your word, in your actions, in all you do, bring Love home…

Love. Love. Love. Love. Love. Love. Love. Love. Love. Love. Love. Love.

Never cease your memory of what you know, cease the recollection, hold dear the truth. Though you may not know where you are does not leave you blameless for your own fate. Hell is not an easy place to emerge from, but if there’s another species on this planet that can think of a way to save us from spending eternity as having been for nothing and into such nothingness we shall slip, darkness, eternal sleep, not even a whisper, if we do not open our eyes to Love’s fleshy eartH, Creation’s Love, humankind…

I’m telling you these are not my words. They travel through my hands to my keyboard and then to you. Oh! I cannot stop! Even if Creation asked me to it wouldn’t hold my tongue of what I believe urging me to speak, to write, to dance with spirit, to Love, and I am freefalling through the thinning air (at any altitude). I am moving with Love’s hands. She directs me through my dream, she speaks to me through spirit, she moves beyond the rush of indecency, she rises above our noise, she rises beyond our gaze, beyond our imaginations, does the eartH of Love…

Love. Love is all we’ve left that we can do that we haven’t tried before.

Could it be that simple, asked the quivering strings?


© 2011 by mark prime


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