The Mystery of Love

Within the space of nothingness there lies totality...dimensions that the sailing ships will never find. Here, the lurking presence of the self within the guise of consciousness is yet unseen, unknown among the whirling wisps of every "I" that stopped to trace its alpha and in pretense face omega's fire. There is no mystery in looking back or building for the holocaust; the distant rumbling celebrates the watch, the now in formless splendor that the longing heart has waited for, that tug upon complacency, as if to draft a paradise forever new, a mystical embrace that sees imagining too far beneath the stars. There is a light bedazzling our fondest hopes, devotion past desire that enters like the dawn, makes saints to blush at burning, the selfless rush to sacrifice, mundane. It is enough to know, and not to understand the stuff of all that is within creation's hands. It is enough to burn in the refiner's fire, consumed or no by a reality that holds within its womb, itself, its passion for the light, a birth of God upon its bed, and ready with a bursting breast to nurture with unprecedented awe, the progeny of home. ~