Look through me like a god, you know I trust you. Implicit are those eyes shining under the conspirators mantle. We are to believe you as a father figure, as sky universe and all that befalls us. In turgid times wandering to the cliff edge, decanted, to the beach. Washed with an outgoing tide down to another life unseen.
Silence & Grace.
Silence and Grace ice death. All still, but water runs and streams, make rivers that flow out to the sea. One day they may come back and leave another upon this sandy shore, as the tide comes in. Sunrise the following day, you are but an empty shell on the sand. You grow and run away to who knows where. But the past will not follow you, to be born midway. Childhood will not be revisited suffer no more.
And so we came from the fish climbing the bank and there after came us, presumably as in evolution in the defendants of the rhythm of life in the millions of couplings, to this point, we have come with no further roads to know. Other than that of the chaos and confusions we see and feel. We wait for the flood and a solitary Lilly floating once more to establish a root race further than now. I leave you with this thought, out there in the wilderness, for this moment in time, of the now, before the morrow comes. Wading water, high in the flow of the conscience that births us to the roots of creation.
Many temples in the sacred ground of the Shed. Strange, uneven, wonky things, the flicker in the flame of peace. A shadow of the one still inside, not quite dead, but ascending in universal white light of purity and of reason, as was promised, leave this world behind. Creation, preservation, transmigration, she is the new Temple throughout the land, but only room for one to spread light to all, in a now dark world we endure.
I do not believe in anything but I wait for a sign, no distinctive movement for the decent, the concerned, the worried, those who lie awake. Feeling helpless at what to believe, the sky, the sun, are relentless every hour. The torturers come the media, the propaganda, and millions of mistrustful beings, tied to the cult of self. The Egyptian female obsession with the Cleopatra look, body distortion beyond any sense of safety or reason. The decent amongst us lie to our children and say it will be alright. Whilst they fret at what to believe coming from clever British politicians, from the same route and mould. But do not worry ordinary people will be back and maybe the lonely and vulnerable will find a friend that will make them live for another day. Amongst this world’s illness and grief your God will indeed come through the clouds and absorb your panic and dissolution, Amen for now, but not for ever more.
They were looking for a home in the middle of a very dark and depressing winter. Being so tiny and few they needed food. Android, his shelter frightened of being trodden upon. So this place had to be special and so safe and have a homely crusty roof with the finest food aromas for this the little people required a small home of much sustenance.
When the little people sneaked out in groups Dolly the little leader passed the best artisan bakery she could find, but the proprietor had to be presented with a word in his ear. So when Dolly found a very old shop she led her troop of little people in and proceeded to climb up the Bakers arm and have a word in his ear, he chuckled and made a suggestion, he said to Dolly “I will every day make for you a large sausage roll with a homely pastry roof, a hole in its dome and a door with a walkway at each side. You and your little people can pull tasty meat morsels from a sausage wall and the smell of tender seasoning will surround you.
There will be two pastry doors at either end and you can grab falling chunks of pastry warm and cooked. I will make these every day for you pronounced the baker eager to protect these special Devic Kingdom travellers who had to make it through a bleak winter, while on there way to The Forrest of plenty at Turkers Wood near the old city of York.
The baker also gave the little people wee cups of sweet fruit juices slightly warm to keep colds at bay, they survived merry beings, hiding behind cakes and drinks til the season changed so they could catch a breeze and tumble, rolling in balls unfolding in the fauna of the medieval wood, chuckling under the full moon in there pastry crumb beds preserved from the sausage rolls of the Artisans comforting winter shop.
