Liberator

Walking down the bloodless path, the man aimlessly searches for Truth.
Frustrated by lack of foresight, he chooses his own way, drawn to fickle independence.
Crashing through hedges, he ignores the ripping of his clothing and flesh.
Coming upon the house of the Complacent, he takes his place among those who fear naught yet all.

He takes his taste of pleasures to spirit and body which are rich and temporary
without the preservations of a Master.
He fights for authority, false though it may be, and bloodlust rules his hand.
He pays no attention to the bruises on Beauty nor cares for the crushing of Man.
Without vindication, he buries his own soul in the darkness he had never sought.

He quickly possesses all he had wanted, and yet there is a gnawing hunger in his breast.
He is aware of lack to his natural make-up, and comprehends the emptiness of all he has bought.
The Truth is not here, he admits to himself, and stumbles from the door of his deception.
Unsure where to begin his quest anew, he stands.
Quiet.

In the stillness begins a transformation which had been nullified by the actions of his campaign.
As though taken from himself, he rises above the earth, apart from it and yet preparing its fruition.
No longer of man and yet completely a man, he is told of the Truth and given a Pursuit –
an errand to find that which effects a desired depiction of the Great Union.

Letting his eyes wander over paths of many, he finds himself pointed toward one unexpected.
The path is overgrown and the keeper eclipsed, but the Master submits that he wait.
It is hard to remain still, but his Master fills the time with necessary instruction and guidance.
He is on the brink of deserting hope when his gaze is captured by the running woman.

He sees her fall, her body naked and broken, grasping for an unseen gift.
He turns to his Master, but He quietly shakes his head. No one help her until she asks.
The man watches breathlessly as the woman weeps, unable to claim serenity.
As she weeps so does the Master, and His crystal tears fall to the earth, kissing her face.

Professedly fallen, her tears come to an end, and her palms lift up for healing.
Dressed anew in the stars, she looks up to the Master; all she had been was forgotten.
As the Master takes her up, he establishes her with the Sky and gives her a purpose in that home.
Mirrored from Redeemer and Body, the man and the woman a mortal berth employ.

Recompense

Walking down the bloodless path, a crescent rose slips through her fingers.
When the blossom contacts the ground, pearl petals burst apart in a rainbow of white.
The yellow center’s powder scatters, leaving soft tears on the fair stems clothing.
The woman continues her walk, mindless of the beauty she has lost.
There are better gifts.

Entering the house of the Lustrous, the woman does not notice the grime under her feet.
Her crimson dress, once a simple finery, is drawn downwards, made heavy by maquillage.
The oils of the ground reach their fingers up, beginning the stain at her hem.
The blackness creeps upward without her notice; she is too enticed by her freedoms to care.
There are brighter gifts.

The woman has all she wants in this new age – wealth, promise, and glamour.
She is powerful within herself, and she lusts after more, giving all and not caring for price.
She sells herself without knowing it, trading her natural elegance for prestige.
She gives away her ability to lend strength to others by grasping at what is unnatural.
There are richer gifts.

After years of seeking supremacy, she discovers a lack in her seemingly perfect world.
With all the prestige she has gained, those around her have given no honour.
With all the allure she has come to possess, she has lost the natural graces she once held.
The pledges she had deemed she deserved had been given her, and yet she hated them.
There are superior gifts.

Realizing her own degradation, the woman chaotically seeks the path she once walked.
She is broken and weeping, aimlessly thrashing through thorns and bristles.
Her black dress is torn away in shreds, the sparkling jewel stones falling away in shards.
She finally discovers the path, overgrown and uncared for, neglected by its caretaker.
There were marked gifts.

Stumbling and falling to her knees, the heels of her palms scrape against the once green path.
Blood is spilt and she cries out in desperation, wishing for the healing of her soul.
She lies on the ground, spent and unable to go on, her body bruised, naked, and trembling.
The strength she had once glorified had never been strength but only a façade of arrogance.
There were false gifts.

Her eyes fall upon a sparkling vision of pearl petals, the golden tears still unfaded.
She reaches out to seize the softness of the beauty she had once held, sure of the regaining,
but when her hand contacts the bloom’s clothing, it withers at her touch, unable to bear her.
Fully realizing her loss, the woman is tormented by her lack of wisdom and true strength.
These were true gifts.

The End

So we have reached it: The End.
The cards have been tossed and the settings chosen,
and felt is the glorious scent of faux greens.

Wrapped in white silk am I,
discarded like the bruised leaf of Autumn
and sweet bruises refrained in my skin.

The wickedness of Men has ruined me.
I am obliged to receipt their covets
and break the unspoken law of Silence.

Few people know my true name,
and no one misses me until I am gone.
I am wholly there or wholly nowhere.

I am possessed by the male and female.
From the days of their youth I shadow them.
In every soul I wait for the day they forget me.

I do not mourn them, for I am as youth:
only meant for a day and a year.
The sweetness of my presence is not a loss,
for it is replaced by my sister of Insight.

In a moment I am gone.

Do not long for me, Beloved.
I am not meant to be always coeval.
I am the gift of the beginning, and my gift is The End.

Looking Up

It’s a wearisome path which is traveled alone,
and one I have left behind.
I could easily walk past each stepping stone –
rely on the strength of my mind.

The fog in the trees was nothing to fear:
blue hazes of simplety raw.
The darkness of shadows became something dear,
a novelty which became law.

I reveled in loneness; I knew it must save.
My days could adapt to this lie.
A heart could as easily beat in the grave –
less simple to live than to die.

I could stand on the precipice, ready to fall –
to permanently stop the pain.
To accept my end would bring peace to all;
there was no more in life I could gain.

Catching my breath I was ready to leap
but then was stopped short by a hand.
A voice tremored through me: “I’ve come from the deep.
This is not the ending I planned.”

Comfort and love were all I could hear,
the gentleness calling me back.
Afraid that this Saviour would soon disappear,
I turned ‘round, braced for an attack.

Blinded by light, I trembled complete,
my darkness: incomparably ill.
Unable to stand, I fell to His feet,
yearning to shadows to kill.

Trying so hard to rip off my apparel,
my weakness preventing this state,
I could my feel my heart becoming resentful
that I could not shed this trait.

Weeping again, I buried my face in the dirt.
I could not change myself.
I knew my Lord’s judgment should be my dessert –
a fairness in and of itself.

“Let me help you,” He said, coming down to my level,
and He held me as rain came to fall.
A scarlet blood downpour was the death of my vessel;
the scent of aster beds my shawl.

The quest wasn’t over – it had only begun.
Life wasn’t a solitary walk.
There were others whom by my Lord had won,
and together we lean on that Rock.

It’s a wearisome road which is traveled alone,
and one which I now defy.
I smile at the life unto which I have grown
and forever look up to the sky.

My Secret Place

People are afraid to walk through the doors of my secret place.
When they come in, they cannot escape themselves.
The door is heavy to some, light to others, operable to all;
it masks nothing and contains everything.

Many people walk down the hallways of my secret place.
With each clap of the foot on white marble, sound echoes.
The state of the sole makes no difference,
as the keeper cares nothing for race or standing – only the coming.

My secret place is filled with the light and joy of the sun;
the sky cannot speak the beauty nor the moon reflect its greatness.
There is always room to be filled yet it is full when only a few gather.
Alone, it is nothing. When people assemble in the cove, it is all.

Come with me and walk beside me in my secret place
for a time of restoration and healing within your depths.
The places of imitation may bewitch the mind,
but the consignation of your step here is rightly marked down.

Forever My Hero

How interesting the world is
when we look past our own face.
You’ve shown me that – in many ways.

You’re my hero.

You showed me what it’s like to fly,
to soar into the bright heavens.
We played together as siblings do.

People told me even snow is dirty,
but to me you were perfect –
even when you made mistakes, like anyone.

You left me and I cried,
although knowing you’d be back,
but I felt your presence – ever soothing.

When I was weak, you were strong,
prevailing no matter what came.
You were there when times were the worst.

When my faith was weak,
your steady guidance led me along.
When I was mad at the world, you smiled.

Like a bright daylily;
that is what I saw in your countenance.
You have been as faithful as the air I breathe.

Despite your beauty and steady grace,
a boast has never left your lips.
How I wished to be like you – a soft temper and smile.

When I prayed to God for comfort,
it was then that you called.
God has given me the best companion.

You raised me up, as that great song says,
to stand upon tall mountains.
You make me feel special and beautiful inside.

Modesty and honesty are your faithful companions,
a gift from God you use well.
Your determined influence has forever marked me.

Yes, when I look back I remember
some good days – some bad.
But I’ll also see your loving influence, never changing.

You are forever my hero.

Hunting

In a world of dreams, you become someone else, and rarely by choice. This evening, you step into the body of a small girl, defenseless in her seventh year, feeling as worn and old as the tattered dress and theatre beads around her neck.
You don’t know why you’re running, but you can feel the urgency as you grip the hand of a boy. He’s your brother, and he looks upon an upright man with trust and awe. The man has no name, but he holds you both tight as you run for a broken down sham. He seems to know you, because he calls your name as you lag behind.
Bullets whip at your heals, and you try not to scream as terror floods your body.
Hovering under the strong arms of the man who holds you and your brother to him, you all squat against the cracked wall. The dark oak planks allow light to seep in, and you press your eye to one of them, looking out into the dawning beams.
A rich man laughs as he hangs his rifle over his shoulder. His head tips back and the slobber of too much drink runs over his cheeks. His body is swollen with depravity, and you call him Narcissus.
The women on his arms dress in the velvety colours of deathly greens and reds. They goad the man on with their flattering words and suggestive eyes. They are the harlots of Malacandra.
The nameless man pulls you and your brother down as Narcissus swings his rifle in drunken arcs. The bullet holes made in the wall planks come so close to hitting you, you can feel the air moving.
You cannot breathe as you lay beneath the protection of the nameless man, gripping the hand of your brother. When the cracks of the rifle stop, you can hear the harlots croaking: “It is nearly morning. Let us be done with our sport. Who enjoys hunting children in the light?”

Santonym

Things are not always as they seem.

Friendship is the sincerest in silence;
The greenest grass is under your feet.
Winter marks your warmest months;
West is up and also down;
There is no northern wind.

The best book written is still unread,
The most honest harmony unheard.
Delight is sought in the brink of sorrows;
Tears are sweet, smiles are heard;
There is no northern wind.

The Sky is a lover of Moon and of Son;
A Child is the most cherished priest.
The canyons are valleys that cannot be stored;
Darkness is darkness, Light is light;
And still no northern wind.

You Have Chosen

Sinking

Sinking lower and lower.
The faces watch the body sinking as bells toll a soul into eternity.
The pulse of many hearts united in sorrow;
sorrow edged with shock at Death’s mockery.

Death waits under the bell tower, masking the glory of the cathedral.
He is only a shadow, but the faces can feel him as he paces
- to and fro over the soulless graves.

Shrill metallic bats perch like royal crows on every upright death stone.
They watch Death tread past them with eager, contorted eyes.
Some of the creatures follow Death into the vault beneath the pealing ore,
leaving behind them a red and black emulsion of blood and sin.

The grave is locked.

The bats are hungry.
They thrum up and down as dangerous excitement beats through them.
Death is still, waiting for the faces to abandon the sepulcher.
When the horror filled faces are gone, he reaches a dark shadow to rip open the earth.

From the gaping hole rises a dark soul, hope drained as it beholds the spectacle.
The soul asks for fair judgment – it surely had not earned such darkness.
Death derives malicious pleasure from the statement.

You have chosen me, Death shouts, his wraith approaching the soul.
You chose me when you hungered for what you could see.
When the bell has tolled you into my haven, you will hear the noise of my ecstasy.
Daily, you will eat at my table of glorious darkness,
feasting upon the sorrows of your own verdict.

Answering the Call

It happens quickly.
One minute I lie on the bed, the next I stand in darkness.
I can hear whisperings.
I instinctively know the whispers concern me.
And, it is strange…

I am naked.

I hear a tone, but it is different. I hear it with my skin.
A voice that is both strange and familiar speaks to me.
“Unworthy. You cannot stay here.”

Shame takes me over, moving from my belly and out.
I remember the deeds of my past.
The talking, the writing, the walking.
Even the things I thought good seem silly.
My blind eyes lower to the floor.

The chill around my body turns warm like honey in the sun.
I can feel a hand take mine.
I instinctively cling to it.

A voice speaks next to me.
It is the same as the first, yet different.
I tremble.

“I have claimed this one.
This one I have marked.”

As though the words had cleansed me, I saw.
A glorious face is before me.
I know Him.
He knows me.
He sings with delight, and I am enfolded by the arms of my master.

My heart might break with joy.

He releases me and turns me toward the crest.
“Father, this one I have called.”

Ancient Rains of Promise

Gazing out the window, I find myself wishing for the warm Sky,
yet the time for warmth seems distant and uncertain.
I pull away…
my warm hand leaves a ghost of moisture on the glass.
Without thinking, I have indulged the ambiance of a constant, dampening rain.

In my soul, I feel the insistent thrumming of an unfulfilled desire,
like the wings of a thousand birds, it beats against my heart:
the desire to be free – to dance – to be at peace.

In my spirit, there is the persistent rap –
as the chains of a slave clang against the brass restraint of the gurney –
and it wishes for the answer to an ancient promise.

Then I listen to the rain striking the glass,
admiring the beauty of the sparkling, elixir crystals.
They delay for a moment before trickling down the smooth surface,
and I weep with them, unexpectedly growing calm.

Outside linger the shadows of black and grey clouds.
They had once been my enemies,
but as the leaves blow and branches bend,
I expose myself to the elements.

Wind… rain… wet… and vulnerable.

Alone, and yet not alone, I run through the rain.
It lies thick on my hair and soaks me to the bone.
My naked feet pound into the sodden ground;
I spray pools of water with each determined hit.

I persist and conquer through rising floods, stopping when I hear a light sound,
and I realize that it came from me.
I had laughed…
The warmth of the Sky is looked forward to – a natural comfort;
yet I find myself benefitting from the anticipation of joy.