The art of living will die along the sea where languid lovers lie amidst open windows and linen curtains. The dreams we had became fluid nightmares wherein the controller and the controlled fought to the death.
It is through suffering and suffering only that we gain the capacity for unconditional love.
The misery of a missed blow, lay lapping on the shores, bloody.
A body disfigured, folded one, two, three times away from the other.
Protection spells are only needed when we do not bare the burdens of the other.
Together- we transcend; to meet the needs of the other - seeing outside of ourselves for the first time; as children of god, as warriors of light as pieces of a whole heart.
So many mysteries in the world
That begin in cruelty (Mary filled the Ocean with her tears wept for the murder of Jesus)
And men lined their pockets with his fleeces.
No more truths in you. Only the reflection of the self, sun in eyes, ego paned through the open windows, linen curtains.
Dystopian landscapes in muted pastel
