You may not always see me but the truer portion of my heart will always be behind you.
What mystery can you hide when the eyes give away the lie….
The feast for the body before the famine of soul.
Rejoice and delight the life that is bountiful before giving of self, for the spirit to renew.
There might be nothing.
There might be something.
And time is the only coin we use to gamble our lives.
Bet there is nothing, and despite the value of that coin increasing or decreasing in tangible value, the bet on nothing is, by definition, insubstantial.
Bet there is something, and all bets are off, for the bet itself negates the ‘something’ that only has value, worth believing in, if it substantiated with trust. The reward of faith is a joy that arises from receiving validation that all suffering and hardships were not in vain. That against the odds of survival, in a sudden plunge and impeding impact, something provides the knowledge that we will be caught and given a soft landing. This joy can only arise, if the knowledge is present before the fall. And despite this truth there is still a gamble and time is still our only coin, of which, to place any bet win, lose or draw is without a win or reward. But without the gamble there is no time to value, the mystery which exercises faith, there is only bets on nothing or something and neither carry trust.
There is more to all this,
And yet, this is how it is done.
Kyrie Eleison, a blur. From behind?
If only, I hadn’t chosen to swim alone,
That night; never meant to forget.
From where did these bellows,
drenched in static echoes, arise?
How long did the distraction gut sight,
That the Insipid presence that surrounds,
Arrived, too late to notice?
Unvarnished timbers, too close to escape,
Not far enough to be uncertain,
Sever a reverent staccato;
the severe timbre of a fierce bow.
Frosted in naked waters,
Garments of a wicked cold, encroaches.
Effaced danger palms the acrid delight;
Enter, with palms of Galilee,
The façade of ‘more,’
The one worth pocketing.
Clamoring to be heard,
mistaken for the herd,
the sermon longs for misty shores,
perplexed by soring vestiges,
but sure, these acquisitions,
no sore battlements can win.
The victory of you,
Is not from damnable I,
Damming the underground venture,
at cruel junctions,
Neither holy nous nor wholly noose,
But a repertoire to the noumenon.
And let it be No mistake,
No One knows, the One who knows.
Taken, not by my words, if satiated,
But the evil little vowel,
Dining on crisp reductions,
Delivering I to eye, eye from I,
Of what I have done,
And failed to do,
So the insolvent state,
Neither mine to give or take,
Relates the perpetual advent of you.