More beautiful than the winds Who by their silky back-and-forth Weave hope into destiny; And never has the hope launched Any man’s wager as high as the vital illusion Who rides his flight on the wings of the vulture.
If death can fly for the sake of stealing, is there anything that life, for the sake of dying, could not do?
And I turn to the holy,indefinable war this is where the world lives in deepened tombs, the cities now sad streets deserted and dangerous
I want to bathe in rain and throw myself upon the ashes of smoking ruins, the world, distant memories dreams of childhood, short joys of life and sweet hopes drawn, quartered upon the alter of unholy great reset,
dress me in dark clothing I will wear widow weeds in mourning for life stolen gone like a cloud after sunset I live now in a land where the trivial succeeds the sublime at every moment
let the Infinite fury of hell unroll before me like a hymn I sing to myself at Mass as this eternal war’s substance permeates silent resistance and I am completely helpless
From the deep breast of sleep to rolling eyes of sighs There is a room in Berlin from which songs’ sing forth sounds of flowers opening wide for passing onerous hues of blues, like a feather falling that will once again float tomorrow, a hurricane of color found in springtime dancing on the head of heaven, for heaven’s made of feathers that tickle our ears when we sleep, deep and silent in our berlin room, our soft breaths drip with destiny, this our future from the oldest jewel of creation; while down below in Sion, women carefully pat powder on their hair softly humming as beautiful eyes open before their mirrors, as even Goethe on his deathbed cried out, ‘mehr licht! mehr licht!’, More light, more Light!!
Do not look for our life in life It’s nowhere to be found Here we will only speak to absence
Do not look for our nation in the flag of country, Here there is nothing but streets of ashes, grafitti and incense
Do not look for love in those you love, Here there is shocking parody found in the laughter of clowns
Here, the lies of truth are given to be lost disguised as futility, be grateful they are not strong enough to claim us Here where we Who live as children inside our world’s final War Here, we are God’s graceful, dancing angels, Here, our flowered smiles of the grave are forever inscribed on our lips, for Here we bear the frost of eternal innocence left on battlefields, our blood shed for these precious lies of truth so that Here in our silence we will enlighten our Race which will seize those of us whose poems leap from out of quagmire fields, Here, rest in peace the final words breathed between earth and Here, the skies bloom off the trail of tears left upon imposed paths of necessary violence, so that Here, We may become salvation’s madness, deaf and blind, our nations’ Wars are the containers for all living water drained by such thirst, so that Here, the Glory of our War will drench us all with a one word poem: “Amen”
I am blond and he is handsome May the kingdom of heaven be our gift; Before he hailed me, my heart was broken and loved by the Prince who died on the cross for me;
Inside this White cloister and under this patient space of ivory arches where my novitiate’s hours are spent here is where I weave my happiness I say my prayers without sorrow
Under this closed sky of early winter. I sleep a sleep that is attentive only to God. Inside this alabaster cloister I am a peace-filled and hopeless nun traveling with God by desire, waiting for angels to draw another chaste evening
I am blond and he is handsome I dream of his whispers, greedy and hear his soft humming against my flesh Blue, dark, transparent, I am caught inside the depths of greedy whispers, and soon someday he will be beside me, over me, inside me his longing has no end, his mouth speaks lover’s words, he has no time for prayers or begging;
He will open a scar in me, a stigmata I will be filled and full of miracles blasting through the sharded skies of his love, falling into the living water of his kiss, I cry out for caresses that satisfy every longing and blinding joy
I was walking the road to destiny I walked towards a flood of love I was walking the path of healing; I met my love as he waited in the morning mist, Edelweiss bouquet in hand, petals drying beneath the sun
I was walking the high road to him the Angelus ringing out from the chapel bell tower below, I was walking with a light step, feverish dreams reaching inside my aching heart as I walk I am the rolling hull, I am the wild oat in his field the perfect product of his cultivating, I am a furtive joy and a smile, my soul breaks through all darkness, even the darkness of his love’s great light, I am pale sunset of sighs and hard memories,
I am his misty future and vain repentance, his painful sunrise of glorious love, of worry, of weariness begging for leniency
He is an outlaw, his word is my beatitude, inside his love I keep vigil, I am the high beacon of shattered strength, I am his oar to shore, I am sulky of his disdainful desires, yet my kisses carry the bite of utter submission, I am the ancient rock, the spirit of reincarnated ancestors I am the eyes of the life beyond, I am faithful to his most absolute demand
Forgetting that time ends in all things, and even new beginnings become stagnant, she wished to see for the first time the oceans inside his eyes stop for a moment in her waters..
there are virgins who must always be near their god, and who when crossing each of his thresholds, make a wish instead of penance;
as love can come full season, she lights candles to keep dead watch over her wandering god and overcome with emotion, she throws open the door peering out to the distance, a new god coming in on tonight’s storm she guesses and hopes, lifting up her arms, palms open to catch the sunset songbird singing over every wound on this earth.
If anyone hears me, if anyone is listening, my tears have dried, if someone accepts me as I am, if there is any love left, if our soldiers become prayers, if the warring trumpets fall silent, if your tears for my king are benediction.. if there is any love left, if a single word were enough, if my voice carries consolation, if my love knew how to console if our hands entwined lift up bearing swastikas of peace,
if death were silent and life sacred, I would no longer be alone…
We stop speaking, Our silence like prayers on the wind swings through the willows hanging over the trough You know despite my silence that the leaves are going to fall, and you know despite my silence that I belong to you although I’ve never said the words, doves and twilight your hand a Sun reaching out to me, your Goliath’s eyes on me mute my fear and tonight is the night when everything is left to prayer
Guardians of our race inner shadows watching as around moving within ourselves searching the night that returns to us holding hands, entering the mirrors of our lands
looking for what is lost those ancient treasures we were meant to inherit, stolen – facing aching eternity absent those stairs and the halls leading to our glorious reigning heaven
Holding hands we break bread before eternity, seeking the stars of our destiny, we were born like this and hated for our beauty, living now lost at the height of clouds so serene among the shadows between heaven and hell and we know that only our Love exists here where Heritage keeps us wandering
looking for treasures squandered the treasures stolen, the memories lost, the Light of our world;
Our ancient guardians sign custody papers using the seven names of God; knowing they will soon come to claim us, we are on the move and arriving for having come so far; we will leave with those who are leaving, while chasing away those who chase us Guardians of our race, extend your blessings and grace over us as we birth a new race, a new world a new home..
Alternate realities do exist, not in other dimensions, but in the minds of every living organism (be it sentient or otherwise). Our individual realities are constructed within our minds, attempting to process, or make sense of, a massive flow of information, at a speed equal to it. "Reality" is what we perceive, rather than an actual plane of existence or awareness.