Living in a moment through the danger, to me, is no stranger,
And A Savior shouldn’t take another moment too long, for One
Who swims freely in their Beloveds Mystery, as endlessly as the Sea,
Stretching vastly into its purest reflections, of Future-Past-Life lessons,
Navigating these murky waters, for Truest Direction, not right, or wrong.
Taking precautions, while Awareness settles in, weakening inhibitions, and
Yet, Still, centered strong In Believing the power of Healing can Come on
Through, in a poem, art, or song… dancing in tune, or out of time, all along…
Lifting us, up, through, to Inner Truth… We couldn’t possibly find without
What’s not down there already, underneath worldly cares, other than Love
Alone in privacy, or in other such uncomfortably, confusing, public affairs.
Where most others want to possess such flair, although, we will often fall
Short of Our Truest Self when we lose what (was) Is Real, and Rare…
For Seeing Everything as Jewels will show us how poor we can get… Real quick,
As (Un)Easiness In Emptiness, Is Infinite Spirit, weighing us down like a brick.
Patience, Persistence, and Perseverance, can get us through every time though,
While waiting, wading, in a thickest psycho-illogical grime, of painful life-times.
Where black and white lines are being drawn out in mines, casting no shadow,
Only a doubt in minds without color, or clout, for an unjust fight, So-low.
So, why ask Me …“Who Am I”… when clearly, you don’t seem to think I know?
It just seems like some kind of repetitious, archetypal, bad, Old Game-show.
I’ll probably get off of it, when I’m back on it, and into it again, finding My own
Unconditional Love Is the Beauty in your Art, you don’t happen to know, yet.
Love’s always worth more than Ten Thousand words, so I won’t even try to say it.
It would be in the least, all too ridiculous, and at the most, oh so awkwardly absurd.
It’s just the only way at the moment, It seems to me, I remember how to fly, is in
The Process of my Self discovery in Creation, Whole, not in half, or a third,
As Heaven is scribbling, inscribing some scruples, into my Earthly dreams, for
I sometimes look at Myself in Mirrors, and all I See, is a million featherless bird.