Above the Telescope’s Reach

I am set to arrive any day now, in the place of my choosing. Might it be agony that I’ve chosen as my particular destination of self-annihilation, the one of my making, or might I yet still have time to find myself in the heaven that I believed?

Belief is not about what I imagine there to be, it’s about the truth of what there is in this; my exactness, but more important than any of that, is the truth of where I am, an instinct that is not in doubt, until I forget my duty.

Agony is what you’ll be handed at your own culpable paws. The earth is most loving, for it is but full love, yet, when earth’s children begin to plot her murder, the end of the rope’s been reached…

I will never fly past my orbit; it’s my thinking wits that tell me this. I am home, ladies and gentlemen. I am home on my heavenly love, which seems now more like hell, for it is what my kind has made of it.

Imagine the deceit that had to come packed to the hilt with utter fear to begin to pull off a plot such as that? ...Remember what you used to be?

An angel?

Yes. But not with wings, that’s the angel’s flight of fancying themselves birds. Angels are flightless, but able to soar above the clouds, above the telescope’s reach, beyond even what they can know and into what they believe. There is but one truth. There is one singular belief that matters, the truth. Believe in the truth, for it’s a long way back to Love as far as you've let yourselves drift away.

I have drifted away.

Yes. Now you’re beached, whales of a tale that are idle on the sand, waiting for a hero that looks like you, sounds like you, believes like you. It is you! You, my child, can create heaven out of the ashes.

Yes.

Look in the mirror at your singular self and begin to imagine yourself as angel again. You are being tested and you haven’t a clue. You imagine that you'll escape this place, this earthly heaven, this orb of love? Not on your lives…

~

Might I begin to love like I'm meant to, laugh like I should, breathe like I must, and mend what I need that my spirit might again its dance in love with all? I must love like there’s no tomorrow, because soon it’ll be yesterday, and all of this will be gone, buried beneath my ugliness, beneath all of the cruelty I've scraped across the earth like it were nothing more than an expendable tract of property instead of the heart of love. Oh, love! Please allow me to bring peace, love and goodness unto the world...

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

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........•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...

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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

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CONFESSION ZERO

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