Mystery
When I speak through the eyes of the observer, I ask myself, “how are you my love?” with eyes close face pushed bridging the other side. “I am not well..” For alone I can share the peace of the kingdom of God, but while a man is full of doubt and begins to even doubt his own flesh, for the silence I’ve been hushed. The walls of my sacredness have been breached, and the darkness has crept into the everlasting life, that I am. For when doubt consumes the mind, life ceases to exist at all. For the man who is suffocating on his own breath that only wishes to honour the miracle of life, cannot in the embrace of a voice that only casts strife upon the mountains of my kingdom, my land, my love.
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I fear the most that I’ll forget what it is to be joyous in my own flesh, that as time passes by I’ll slowly succumb to that of which I fought against, the dying light that I now swallow myself. I am whole, complete, perfect in creation, yet consumed by future compassion I do not wish to oppose. A wandering thought of paradoxical disassociation permeating to all that is beyond I am, with a body that is crumbling to the core of my aching desire to love wholly. I mustn’t forget how far I have come, in creation, to breathe at the edge of entropy, what a gift it is to witness God, to know God, to breathe God, to be God; for this is the Kingdom of Heaven.
I mustn’t forget, for if I do, the fires of Hell shall surly consume all that was made with love.