SHE WEPT FOR ME AND I HEARD HER CRY

(Stellar Beam - Spirit Guide)

Why has the man I used to be not just packed up his things and vanished? Why does the man I was meant to be have to put up with the man I allowed myself to become?

(The path you blindly followed led you here, Mark Richard Prime. It’s rather simple really. You have yet to fully disengage from the former you. Brain damage or too much fearful spirit, or both, doesn’t matter half as much as you continuing to remember the difference.)

Why is it that when I pray the truth dangles its possibilities in front of my vision with an angel’s wayward glance?

(The path is not straight, Mark. It is curved, it is lined with the demoralized spirit, ghosts that cry out and beg to be heard…)

I’ve found Love! She wept for me and I heard her cry! She gave me her all without asking for anything from me but that I find my worship waiting in her eartH!

(Yes. Love has been waiting on you to find your self and dance your way back to her evermore…)

I am a wretched beast, yet I’ve now only Love in my dance… I am the latest one to pierce Love’s reason, to run my brazen belief across her brow that she might acknowledge my affection as most worthy and swim her fullness of spirit within me, that I might remove the suffering spirits left for her to tend. They’re not hers to heal, they are mine.

(Life, Laughter and Love are three things that you actually needn’t try too hard in order to have. Imagine an existence of only laughter and love? It is before you, Mark Richard Prime, and you must pray it forward to The Mother, the eartH of Creation, Love…)

When I pray, I am filled with a joy that permeates my spirit. I am loving, kind, generous, joyful, righteous, humble and alive…

(Then why would you stop praying?)

To catch my breath…

(Breathe, pray and love. Breathe, pray and love. Again…)

The wind siphons the noise of the interstate slowly toward me, humming its fear near my dance. I sense in it a fate I’ve yet to reckon, a truth that has yet to lift its veil and reveal a loving face. Maybe that’s the usefulness of the power of belief? Perhaps it is useful if I weave it of only Love? It might it be a power whose breadth I’ve yet to imagine? Oh, trickery, thy name is most menacing! Thy path is not mine to travel, I’m too busy navigating the Love’s pathway…

Oh, Love! Will you release me of my burdens, my iniquities known and unknown? I pray you do, for I need to prepare an entrance that leads back to me…

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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