26 04 2013

A seat of stone, a mountain throne, a sacred place, a sylvan tome.
A book of endless grace and beauty, a book of morals, truth and duty.
Emerald moss upon it’s edges, speaking softly mumbled pledges,
to everyone, yet none at all, through valleys low and mountains tall.

The lamplight’s glow is never ending, eternal is the light it’s sending,
through the universal mind, hoping yet that it will find,
those who Hear, and those who Listen – creations power on them glistens,
in the lamplight of the veil, where spirit dwells and love prevails.

Soft and silent, falls the night, within the darkness, shines a light.
Kindred spirits reaching out, their essence screams, there silence shouts…
Drifting, swaying, feeling voices, unencumbered by the choices,
felt by mortal sweat and toil, becoming now the lamplight’s oil.

Dancing in surreal vision, leaving flesh that is division,
of the spirit, where we wander, taking not the time to ponder,
what the vision means or is, dragged along by carefree bliss,
felt when we are one in spirit, allowing not our flesh to fear it.

Evil is the easy way, it’s path so straight and full of play.
Chaotic in it’s winding glory, the path we’ve chosen tells our story.
Eclectic is the thing we are, an ever shining, blinding star.
Beholden not to gold and riches, finding splendor in the ditches.

The poets seem to phrase it best, it is the truth of every test.
Our free will is forever given, though we may think it has been shriven,
from our mortal trappings here, on mother earth, where flesh can fear,
the things that others bring to bear, against the good we seek to share.

It’s tender mercies can be felt, on velvet rests where we have knelt,
praising all the fear we’ve chosen, in it’s wake where we are frozen,
stuck here on this sacred ground, where spirit yearns to still be found,
unfettered is the truth we are, the blinding light of every star…

With our free will, we’ve chosen fear, yet still we pray it won’t appear.
Evolution scoffed upon, while unearthed bones show where we’ve gone.
Conventions are the new commandments, truth and love now lie abandoned,
in the wake of new cathedrals, built by those who sow such evil.

Crusades they wage in hallowed name, while seeking riches, power and fame.
In their wake now lies the flesh, of those whose truth they could not mesh,
within their ever changing writings, where their truth becomes divided,
making laws that voice their glory, yet challenge morals in their stories.
To what we pray, becomes our truth – that sacred blessing of our youth.
In origin, this truth is humble, yet as we age, it seems to mumble…
As we meld into the flock, we deviate from root and rock.
While choices made with our free will, become our truths, our fears, our ills…

If only mortal flesh could see, there is no truth we cannot be.
What we choose is what we are, theology a flaming scar,
upon the spirit, all around us, emotive actions still confound us,
while the truths of all religions, begin with love – and not division.

In silent prayer lies the spirit, glowing in the lamplight near it,
seeking not to tear apart, theology that played it’s part,
as man progressed through darkest ages, with priests and prophets, fools and sages.
Seeking only what it’s giving… hope for flesh that still is living.




2 responses

26 04 2013
Charron's Chatter

awesome how you rhymed the word: spirit. 🙂 A beautiful stroll through a very detailed and imaginable world. The pixie dust is nice…:)

26 04 2013

Am I rhyming again? Damn! That’s so not what poets do these days… I should get with the program and stop vying for relic status. It must be all that pixie dust… 🙂

Thanks for stopping by and saying high! Good to see ya’!

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