The Darkness Cannot Hide Forever From the Light of Love

(The darkness cannot hide forever from the light of Love.)

The first thought of my long prayer is generally penned without hesitation, but lately I’ve found myself gazing at a new translation. It is not as confusing as it used to be, this dance with the many spirits that groove to the one moving through the eartH and within her many veins.

(Dance…)

The breeze summons its chill to stumble across my spine and heavenward tumble me Home…

(The sun steals its shadows. War filches its affections, the sun blanches…)

Beauty is in the eye and spirit of the beholder…

(Look at her, Mark Richard Prime! Though you've done her grave injury, she loves you still. Though you’ve imagined yourself king, you’ve, at long last, noticed you've a queen…)

The reasons I vanquished my fear are actually rather simple, belief in them seemed frivolous after stumbling, quite literally, upon a most Heavenly Home.

(The HeartH is where the Heart(H) and the (H)eartH is…)

The loving spirit chooses my course. Love I leave to select my affection from the many that they might ascend to her side and demand more of my self than that of another thing or another spirit.

In the end they all came down to one, the fullness of Love’s spirit. All paths led to Love, some just required what seemed to be too great a sacrifice, too much suffering along the way, so I imagined a loving neverend to this my journey, an eternity with Love…

When (if) the veil is lifted on a permanent basis it will float above me with an assurance that it is indeed the will of Love and God…

(The will can be a tricky thing, for once you landed in Heaven and the newfound spirits began their warble of Love, Mark Richard Prime, you found yourself in a whole heap of ghosts instead of loving spirits. …Ghosts are not meant to be held on to, they’re meant to be let go of.)

The crow cackles its ingestion in the form of an unanswered question, it lands on my lap and strums a rat-a-tat-tat across my stomach and unchains the fearful spirit I carried nearly all of my life! Rat-a-tat-tat and boom boom boom!

(Mother’s been waiting far too long for a savior…)

The exactness of imagination is impossible to visualize, the exactness of place can be more readily memorized…

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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