Skip to main content

Love should have never gone unnoticed beneath our feet

Where does this road lead? To heaven as we create it, a chance for truth and art within the garden.  Love, the ebb and flow of life, which is Love, which is waiting to see if my speech is sufficient according to my belief, what I‘m urged to speak, but won't. I have been, preparing for this day, when it was completely out of my control, much like my life floating here before me now, in Heaven. Heaven on eartH, Home.

(Why would you do such a suicidal thing?)

Love…

~

Peace and goodbye. Easy enough to say. Yes?

No. What do those stars forming a Y mean? A confirmation of the path I‘m on? Wait? Surely I know that the path I’m on is indeed the one of  Love’s Love. There’s only one. One path I could be on.

Why has your mind spun out of your control?

Love.

~

Love should have never gone unnoticed beneath our feet, over our heads, or in front of our eyes. We are all, bar none, brothers and sisters of the one seed,  Love. We are murdering members of our own family. We’re preparing the path of our own suicide. A most tragic tale was seen fleeing the scene of the crime attempted by mankind, when all we need have done is Love and remember where we are.

(At the time I realized who I was or at the time my mind realized where I was?)

They are one in the same, my child.

~

Oh,  Love. You leave me breathless. You bring me such joy. I haven’t prayed much at all. I couldn’t believe. None of them rang a bell. I don’t remember. I was afraid. I don’t know.

Now, I only Love. Those are my instructions- to Love. They are your instructions, too. Humankind must love. Now.

Cello, raise your bow to all you know, leave belief to the side for a while. Think of what is actually known, and how much of it is just belief?

(What do we really know? We only know what our human capacity can comprehend, there are untold lifetimes of things we have yet to learn on the journey to Love, unimaginably incredible and beautiful Heaven, our Home!)

We can’t recreate eartH, try as we might dream. She is our beholden and we, her tragic children. We've much to learn, so let us begin our long journey back to Love that we might also instruct.



© 2012 by mark prime


Popular posts from this blog

ROOT OF

"For the love of money is a root of all kinds of evil. Some people, eager for money, have wandered from the faith and pierced themselves with many griefs." __1 Timothy 6:10 It is MONEY, not the LOVE of it that is the issue, the true problem. Love, in and of itself, is never a problem, WANT and NEED, or better yet- the WANT and the conundrum of its very REQUIREMENT for our survival IS the problem, it's creation and our blind use of it is logically the ROOT. In other words, let's leave LOVE out of it altogether and deal with the facts instead. If money were not made by us as a requirement for our survival, we'd find ourselves in a much better position to argue of its need and our want of it. MRP Peace and Love © 2015 Mark Richard Prime
........•SHRIEKING MACHINE•........                  •HEAD-LINES•                           •RIP•     ---(“Russian missiles blast Ukrainian military academy and hospital, killing more than 50, officials say”)---    There are no more lessons to learn here, no more beds to hold the human wounded, just missile’s shrieking their grotesque ode, The Death of Humankind! RIP, children of God…    ---(“Hundreds attend Mercer Island vigil, march for murdered Israeli hostages”)---    Dear mourners, this is the brutal vacuum of a genocidal, terror-filled, indiscriminate war-machine made of fear and we are all hostages to its deafening roar! RIP, children of God…    ---(“10-year-old allegedly confesses to fatally shooting 82-year-old man and his daughter”)---    I must confess, this is part of war’s shrieking, children lost with a we...

sdrawkcaB nruT (Turn Backwards)

I have been witness to the four pillars and see no reason to carry death there. Doesn’t the world know that life moves for more than just the sons of Abraham? O! I see the stunned throats floating by in the dusk to their stiff-limbed sleep as metal rains down over the Jordan’s western prophet, children dying there. I am here, waiting, breathing in the dusk under the shadow of the patriarch, asking, can we again build the shrine inside the soul and leave our flesh to time? © 2008 mrp/thepoetryman