The universe is not a void of emptiness, nor is it black.
It is a spectacular blinding light of perception.
Everything happens in the night of day.
Or, perhaps it happens in the day of night.
Mind. Heart. Body. Spirit.

A quizzical external, internal exercise of supposed right and wrong. Walking straight lines filled with curves and hazardous sharp corners that lead to enlightenment, only meant to be discovered by those brave enough to seek out their own truth.

What is the truth of reality?
Especially in the acts of right and wrong.
At times, it seems that the Devil plays God and vice versa.
When at times, right is wrong and wrong is right.
A quizzical external, internal exercise.
When a blind man has a vision of hope and peace.
While men with sight are blind to their own acts of ignorance and arrogance.
Normalizing their ideologies and acts of self-perceived Wrongs and Rights and all that comes bundled with it.
Hate, Greed, Death.
All in the name of the “Mask of Truth” that they wear.

A quizzical…
External…
Internal …
Exercise…
Hmmm.Everything does happen in the day of night.
on the other hand, perhaps it is actually thige night of day.
Either way, those labeled “We the People” of earth, allow it.
Wake up, zombies! | MS

Hair made of honey and gold,
eyes of purest sapphire.
You’re a woman made to hold,
What a beautiful disaster.
You’re a teasing little fairy,
You’re an angel made to marry,
All a man’s heart can desire. | MDKS

A boat is a container,
a box that floats.
it seperates the sailor from the shores,
it separates the sea form the sailor,
and yet with the wind and the tides,
ship and sailor and sea became one
under the sun.
A boat is a secret place
where cast away dreams and forevers embrace
are ever present.
A boat in the middle of a river
is the ultimate secret kids escape. | JM

Drowned in the quiet of silence,
trapped in the stall of fear of their
own making.
Hooves scrape across the cement floor
where once layed straw.
One strike. Two strikes. Three strikes sharpening
hooves edges.
Knives ready for the appearance
of ghost, as the veil of night
thickens and the volume of
Silence increases. | AH

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“The inspired man who speaks the truth, says nothing that is his own.
Through his mouth it is the language that speaks.”
— Terrence McKenna

Silent mother of all word and sound,
cosmic womb of grace, truth and understanding,
your living information permeates the world,
flashing into the vastness, thus it has been
since the time when speech and magic were one.

Your words wing free upon the wind,
your kindled bundles of particular meaning,
dancing around sounds and silences,
crystallizing worlds within worlds,
with fluency, ease and aptness of expression.

Each word its own ecstatic signification,
drawn in shadow and light, in vibration and form,
every phrase, poem, prayer and song a vision,
each flower, bird, stone and drop of rain a linguistic charm,

Each an utterance in sacred tongues of spirit.
In wordings bestowed, borrowed, woven and rewoven,
Into fences encircling fields of conscious thought,
We sow your rhythmic seed, germinating in intellect,
externalizing the vistas of our rich interior blossom,
as we spell our names across the eternal scroll. | IL