Wednesday, March 7, 2012
Monday, March 5, 2012
Alive in a Time of Dying
The days meld into nights into days of unrest to rest, my voice. I'm guessing the full moon rising, she may speak on my behalf.
SisterMoonChild shall bat her eyelashes spiderlike to each constellation as they sparkle and dim upon the backdrop of this grand stage.
This place we call Earth, it is a Hell birthing breathing dragons of denial and greed and in between, beauty. The blooming of new life.
The irony that existence is dependent upon black vs. white, good vs. evil, night vs. day, man vs. woman, sun vs. moon, and you vs. me.
Where are the ones standing and speaking for us all, we're outnumbered. Where is the golden chalice, my cup of poison, the holy altar?
I shall gladly drink my share to elevate me from a state of betrayal. Hand me a crudely chiseled cup made only by the hand of man.
Bring it to my lips, love. My eyes shall close, breathing cease, yet my spirit shall soar as pure divine energy.
Oh, what silly creatures to dream a dream upon dreams that may or may not exist according to each of our own waking states.
I shall attempt to reach a state of being and non being, of living while dying alive, of pure esoteric flight, of thinking without thought.
How grand it is to be alive in a time of dying. The fresh buds shall bloom when the frost sleeps during Springtimes coming of age. And Summer shall welcome Fall, prepare her for Winter.
Drink, friends, this cup of mine is yours.
It is sweet, oh, yet it is bitter.
Drink, friends, this cup of mine is yours.
It is sweet, oh, yet it is bitter.
© Susan Marie 2012
Sunday, March 4, 2012
lines finely sketched
I raise both palms in supplication to that which is more immense than the feeble human mind and cry as thunder for the ills of society.
Voices reverberate in my skull bones causing me to question: Is it I, solitary human, that has fallen backwards on her own insight?
Are we all not sane and insane? Are we all not greater and lesser? Who has the absolute right to judge such a notion?
Such answers elude me. Raising my weary and shaking palms to the fiery boisterous sky. Waiting for answers only I have the answer to.
The thin line that separates us all is oh, so very fine. Like cracks in fault lines, the smallest disturbance, a chain reaction.
I seek answers to questions that have no answers. I must be insane to imagine that fine line, erased, and the middle way, my berth.
The Valkyrie's Vigil (1906) by Edward Robert Hughes
Thursday, March 1, 2012
"Nightingales Perched Upon Knots of Mother Nature" For Syria
The dead speak in tongues known only to nightingales perched upon rheumatic knots of Mother Nature trilling: What fresh hell is this?
Their voices echo in crisp cold eves, melding with wind's fierce breath. She welcomes them, wind, embracing martyrs, one by one.
Dear Earth, how short life is. We pay homage to those who travel to better places more so than precise moments of our own existence.
We cannot fully experience what death holds dear. Pure and absolute energy, alive and aligned divine with the universe, whole.
There's no reason to fear existence nor death. They are similar, yet this is the playground, the game board, the poker chip.
Each breath of ours mimics movements elsewhere. Do not think that you do not matter. For every fallen soul, there is birth.
Hassan Saad, 13, who fled Idlib in Syria, flashes a victory sign while walking outside the refugees camp near the Turkish-Syrian border in the southeastern city of Yayladagi, on February 16, 2012. Hassan said that his father was killed by the pro-Syrian President Bashar Al-Assad army five months ago.
© Susan Marie 2012
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