Carry on
with all your talking,
my superpower is deafness,
your words are pointless squawking.
So just keep walking.

I won’t bend,
your noise means less,
I rise above
your emptiness.
The more you shout,
the less I hear,
your fading voice
just disappears.

O child of dust, yet seed of flame,
the world you walk is woven of chain,
shadows that rise, dissolve, and die,
mirrors of what you cannot deny.

The Soul is a battlefield:
one wing strains toward the upward sky,
the other, chained, clings to earth’s mire and lie.
Strife is your birthright;
until Spirit conquers Flesh,
only then can we truly matter and be refreshed.

Be pious, O child,
for gratitude is wisdom’s crown.
Thanks is the key that keeps us on ground;
without it, no soul can reach the height
where Truth stands still,
serene, eternal light.

All bodies break,
but essence never bends.
All that is sown must perish,
yet what is born of the One never ends.

Know this:
to love the body is to drift in darkness;
to know the Source is to fly beyond death.
For every soul is double,
half a prisoner of time,
half a citizen of eternity,
and life is the test.

Therefore lift your eyes,
learn the order of things,
and remember:
Life and Light divine brings,
and you are its likeness
in this truth, we still sing.

Return, child,
not as flesh, but as flame,
all part of the mystery;
it’s all part of life’s game.

Past is never forgotten;
time only teaches
how to live with it.

The future is not free
from the clutches
of the past.

Past is a mirror
within the soul—
unbroken,
omnipresent,
always there
to remind us
of what is left behind.

A mind cracked wide open will show,
that wisdom can drip, thick and slow to flow.
Though yolk paints the smiling face,
it’s a bright, messy, an awkward grace,
For one thing I know: egg on your face helps you grow.

I met a pen in the middle of the rain,
it twirled on its tip
and whispered my name.
It scribbled sideways,
upside-down,
to the side,
painting its wonders on the walls of my mind.

My thoughts, obsessed, chased logics in spirals,
round staircases of clocks and giggling virals.
Every thought hopped on a carousel of dreams,
leaping through windows,
swimming through golden thread streams.

My tongue was tied in bundles of velvet,
it wanted to dance but needed a helmet.
It hummed to the daisies,
it hummed to the moon,
it hummed to the echo of an old silver spoon.

Memories tumbled from teapots and chairs,
carrying wondrous wonders,
dancing, daring, and rare.
A city of feathers,
a river of light,
pianos that grew wings and took flight in the night.

The pen leapt and pirouetted,
possessed on some tree,
my mind spun on mirrors of impossibilities glee.
The tongue finally laughed,
though softly, though small,
and I saw the world spinning,
wondrous,
through a wondrous all.