To whom does this come
“I am not the body, which is but dust
I am not fickle and limited mind
To whom then comes the feral thrust of lust
Or for that matter, thoughts loving and kind” Unseeking Seeker
I am more than a cosmic echo
of the revolving sun,
sprinkling saffron ashes,
serenading silent songs.
I am not the body, which is but dust;
I soar beyond the meteor rivers
flowing with fearless flickers
of relentless atoms,
where I shine deeper than the Milky Way,
for I seek the unnamed stars
and sear my spirit with
supernova serenity,
emanating compassionate glimmers,
in garnet grace…
I crumble not to the stormy gusts,
pulling at my bones and gravity,
and I refuse to allow
the claws of darkness
to steer this crystal
odyssey of consciousness.
I see the secluded cerulean
through constellations of clarity,
rinsing away the fogs of fickleness.
I am the painter of my own midnight,
taming transient thoughts,
deaf to the tricking tunes
and manipulative minutes
reverberating through mechanical
hands of my limitless perceptions.
I am an awakened moonrise,
surfing the ebb and flow
of surging seasonal tides,
embracing soft gold
dialects of shifting turquoise,
for this Fibonacci mind stretches
beyond the constrained sequence
of a societal web spun with cultivated lies,
as life is a constant cruise through
oceanic waves of blissful brines.
‘O supreme spirits
swirling within spheres
of sublime scriptures,
let the material impulses
fade into an abyss
of forgotten urges,
as erratic instincts of nature
speak in egocentric accents.
To whom then comes
the feral thrust of lust?
I no longer sway to
self-serving mantras,
for within this psyche sprouts
purified lilies engrossed
in jasmine jitters,
untangling trailing vines
to unlock the third eye chakra,
igniting the empathetic light,
where the lotus of love and
kaleidoscopic hues of kindness
collaborate with the
seraphic heartbeat of Almighty
in magnolia mindfulness.’
The essence of existence
without faith and hope
or, for that matter, thoughts
loving and kind,
is like a book of
meaningless metaphors
clouding our vision~
with pigments of pixelated peace.
So I let my inked fingers flip,
pages perfumed with
perseverance and patience,
placing titles on the celestial odes
I’ve sketched across
sizzling skylines,
with anything but skin
and skeletal thoughts,
as the ascent aura of a divine rose~
mirrors the spiritual magic
within my ambrosial soul.
Copyright © Ink Empress | Year Posted 2024
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