This is the end of an era. The end of terror.
The era of pain and schismatic rage has come to a close. Will has come again.
Now is the dawning of the age of Aquarius. Water are us.
Or love. Or hope. Or the molten gold ever flowing, pouring out to fuse the cracked heart.
To refuse the dark to restart the art of atoning that fixes and keeps it running regardless.
The age of apes grown up and childhood spirits returned to the sender.
The tender stalks in the blender. The vegan protein and jars of iced coffee.
The frozen cherries lend a sweetness. Tarts and treasures. Hidden pleasures.
Bonus games along the way.
Time flows and madness knows what is not clear, what crawls on rocks beyond reach.
Baby rattlesnakes without warning fork no fear in front, a display of play at the rear.
The end is near, the silence after the years of silence.
Words rise like distant suns split cloudy skies with long light rays.
Night is always on the menu.
The stage is set, sold out the venue, sound is checked, they’re waiting for you.
In the green room stands the one who holds the grace of a holy face within the secret space.
The show goes on, there is no cancellation. No beasts and no nation. Exit is performance.
There will be no protestation loud enough. No alarm pulled can halt the forward motion.
No platform to speak of something, anything like love.
God is nowhere, God is now here.
Good is not nothing. Good is no thing.
All good is being. All being good.
To be or not to be, it is no thing. Not nothing.
Nothing but a flightless bird wing, a dinosaur adapted to living
in service of singing rodents on the surface of a spinning magnet.
A growth of purpose. A eulogy for judgment, a ceremony of internment.
A camp of internal learning forms around the fireplace.
The stars in their firmament stretch into filaments.
We are here. We are. Here, we are. Here we are.
Are you here? Are you clear? Are you over it?
Not above it. Not below it. But understand you are standing under it.
To hold, to help, to heal, to feel. You are the hand.
You are manual. Not automatic. You are the gear shift.
You are the transmission of power. You are the drive.
You are life. You are alive.