You can sense it slipping. The space and breath a mind can occupy, can expand if given proper nurture.
It slips at its edges and withers into the abyss of voided matter, without purpose or place, then funneled into the growing mass of tech. This all came from somewhere. All this matter is missing from our larger source. This modernity grows and grows, yet somewhere in turn shrinks.
Man in his creation, vaster by the second, withers his own soul to a pulp. The sheer mass, the amount of energy. What poor saps zapped their entire consciousness, their identity of self and ancestral wisdom to support this bane? No wise mind would welcome such a drain, still evil lurks in the grip of power, our world turning towards a black sun. Persuading, duping till the weak crumple. ‘Don’t listen to the wisdom in your bones. Mind body soul are paradigms to manipulate, all separate stripping strings!’ Feed you waste, fuse you to screen, you are growing, break down your ancient knowing and my, more fluoride? You are glowing!
Diagnose your antiquity, there is a pill for that, not a matter of breathing or eating good fat
All they can to make you forget about our Mother. Plow her, upend her, the wind blows somber.
Suppose it does stand all around us, shapeless and bulging, begrudging its own existence. Fumes in air, poison in water, siege the elements, we slip! The man begs you to form, commit to a lifetime of trauma and alteration since you were made to feel like an outsider in your skin. Who let you believe any part of you was wrong, any expression did not fit? You alone stand at the gate. But oh, acceptance! Finally, centuries of strife and now the docs will proudly wield your knife!
Wracking up the hollow expense, where did your love go? The one held in the wisdom of your loins? Did you ask first, gentle and not to judge to the call of your skin? Sick now, fading like sun not towards Our horizon but instead when clouds overtake and only a willowy grey haunts the eve. I pray for you, for us.
The shame and question your body must move with now, lacerated and churning to reconnect to its mind. To each their own, of course and uphold, but still hearth of the Source, a black liquid pools at Our ankles. Your cavity, once a prospect of God’s own work, shrivels. No amount of meditation, introspection, deep, transformative breath will realign you, perfect as you arrived to this earth. Last holy moments of the tormented womb.
You slipped, believed the masked man who dangled cruel words and let you believe the world was the one punishing you, a golden orb, exemplar of life.
Somehow, to operate and dismantle the form one grew themselves is an early meeting with death. Death to the body that served you in all, death to the opportunity to come in to your most true, embodied self. Harrowing, I sense your plea and hear how you loathe. Tell me now, I hang with open, willing arms. Can you hear your body? What does she cry?
A blooden and brutal point where your love went awry.
recent 