Dirty Sandwich.

Dirty sandwich I cannot eat, it will make me die. I never saw who made it, who is it, what are you, inside the rise of salad death. Of meat. I am weak, what happened, oh meat how bereft you are of amino acids. What is your protein chain. A serpent round a helix with wonders to perform.

I Lived As A Seed

The day prior to this one now in history or timeless nothing, I lived as a seed. I felt my growing. I felt a bud to a leaf in my veins. I was thrown about this, all in my ear and nothing else. I felt my fall lightweight to the ground. I was crisp, the dead leaf was I.

A foot I felt, that crunch me down. I was part of it all and someone walked over me. I felt the crunch but I knew before long I would be something else. I heard that and it excited the being within, my karma and I  was in journey to another life, dear leaf I made it, I transcended upwards. Will I be dog or cat, or human on the wheel of life.

The Compound

Thousands of restless souls remained in compound at secret locations after death, these were named as restless souls. They moaned but no one could hear them their earth bodies now gone there seemed precious little to hope for seemingly abandoned in the voids of a timeless zone . They all at one time had some form of earth family and sore and sadly was it sensed by them but as promised they would be claimed and saved cubes of white lights could be vision by these lost souls . The restless ones gradually gravitated from this time toward the shimmering cubes an opening door appeared and pure enlightened beings for each cube beckoned each soul gestured for each soul to be drawn in to new enlightenment and on to another life stream.

The Scribe Savant

Commenteno the scribe savant of his time, sooth sayer supreme he asked the sun and of the cosmos what will become of the earth people, so devoid of feeling and sensibilities, why do they elect as masters those that will harm the weak disabled and mentally afflicted. A signal from violet shaft entered Commenteno’s mind a white light gave this message . The people who rule are also weak and empty they have ingratiated themselves with every false prop of material gain forsaking their suffering counterparts.

Your rulers rule as farmers, the weak, will die. but as a result rulers will become weaker and the graves of the weak will have a sweet scent of promise in bloom. Telling those that come will sense Nirvana and feel vibrations of love energy. For the weak and poor have been released of earthly suffering and the master dictators will meet in hell and burn forever by their evil they will have tied themselves to hell forever.

 

I Think of the Mouse & Broken Down

With millions without homes I think of the mouse who makes a home in my shoe he knows about comfort even from a saucer size hole for his bedding from my old jacket. The mouse makes a lovely home,

With millions without homes I think of the mouse who makes a home in my shoe he knows about comfort even from a saucer size hole for his bedding from my old jacket. The mouse makes a lovely home, all it cost him were his inborn instincts obviously there is no relationship between the skill of the mouse and the plight of a human being, only one regret and it is this. To deny many kind but poor people a home is a lack of empathy and an insult to the meek, who will one day turn like the world and inherit a kind new age world where the horrors of the property profiteers will be banished.

Broken Down

When we are broken down it will begin again when this earth is ploughed and tilled again it will be down with seeds, when we break down, we are born anew to what we discover and in every hundred years we have one that looks the same, for thousands of years it strikes a chord in every country upon earth. We have doppelgangers repeating, the same person guarding, within limitation the souls of us, the masters adepts will be present. Walking in duplicity but with clothing for whatever period of time that was then, this is today and all the tomorrows till  evermore infinity. Too vast for mind to grasp.

The Warrior of Poetry: The Poetry archive