Try as we might; wrists bent in supplication, minds bent on destruction, we can’t seem to stop trying to get a glimpse of Love… Love cannot be seen in a glancing blow. It is The Mother’s fury to have, she is the mother that will summon forth Love’s return… Yes. Call out to them in your sleep, they are already in bliss, from your soul to their soul and into heaven they are… Where is this man who says he knows? But I don’t know, says the man… Heaven is waiting for our, “we’re ready” , now that we’ve seen her majesty… How much more time need pass before you speak? Stop, before you turn the blade in on self and lay waste to all the spirit that is you. Cease to be? Spirits, souls, ghosts and ghouls, two sides of the same Love, it is your fear that must be sent quivering away like a scolded urchin. It is your love that remains, not your agony. © 2011 by mark prime
(The Weaver's Song)