Really Living

Go back with me into that unborn time of listening to beating from within, and muffled sound beyond the wall. Choice cannot contaminate the mind, itself a pinnacle of knowing then with pure impression as its food. A blessed state! and sought by teachers of the soul contemplative... passed on as vision, pure enlightenment, and grace/ But now acceptance of surprise becomes the clarion to action though the self preserve the choice, and if denial wins the day another trembling artery is lost forever...cut off and shriveled from the fountainhead within. Thus it is the servant begs of passersby. Alredy destitute from cornucopic flow, he reaps the famine of self-emptied self, drained not from sacrifice but from the blinding flash of meretricious glory, hot and dry, and swallowed in the black. It is a bicephalic monster we engage, bemusing us with schizophrenic battles of the servant and the self. Creation of demand, supply the axiom, and sanctified with new explosions from the womb. And only chaos casts the shadow of our beauty, and in penumbra, irony. Now then, so late...so clear... There is no servant but the self, and but for inspiration, no outside. But for the self, no grace at all. There is no distance to your God-- the stretch is inward, and the destination is a miracle encircling all. N'est ce pas? ~