We strive for the illusion
that nothing will true change,
and drown in our delusion
as night makes way for day.
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To find….

As we feel to find
the shape of self,
that rustling in the
dark, and fumbling

through the halls of
life, where light is
fragile, stark, so does
soul now whisper,

in heady tones of
grief, that we may
hear and recognise
who we are at least.

And in the mortal
yearning, where hope
is calling still, we
hold our arms in

act of grace, and
draw on bitter will.

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The nature of things is to be

opposite, to strive for balance,

to seek the connection, in that

which has the other electric

charge, where the combination

of the two, creates this world

and all that is in it: matter and

anti-matter; electron and anti

electron; proton and anti

proton, meeting each other

and in that deep place of

annihilation, life is created,

energy is born; in that sure

destruction comes all life,

possibility and being; and

in that death is found pure

birth and transformation, as

the perfect marriage, hieros

gamos,  from micro to macro:

and so do opposites attract.

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Christ consciousness

We are made cellular,

Christ consciousness,

Apoptosis; where each is

Created to sacrifice,

Give its life, for the

Good of the whole;

Where each individual

Cell, is programmed

When healthy, to die

For the sake of  the

Rest; to choose

Extinction, in order

That others may live,

On, just as Christ

Is said to have done;

Each cell a saviour

And a redeemer in

The story, the glory

The crucifixion of life,

From which comes,

Resurrection. Only

When a cell forgets

The truth of what it

Is, and why it was

Made, does it seek

To be eternal in the

Material and, in the

Doing, bring death.


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Dance of death

You were seventy,
you said, that day
at lunch, and you
would not grow old

and infirm, where
others had to care
for you, and where
you drained their

lives, and existed
in your own misery,
and so, you gave
yourself ten years,

and then, you said,
you would go to
Europe for a holiday,
somewhere lovely

like Lake Como, on
your way to someone
with a needle, who
could, in an instant,

bring it all to an end,
so no-one had to
suffer in that lingering
of life – but would you?

It is easy to talk of
what we might do in
ten, long years, as
opposed, to ten, short

minutes left of life,
and where in that
plan is trust, for the
process of this journey

we take as mortal
beings; gratitude for
the horrors and joys
of living in this

material world? But,
of course, your path
is not mine, and it
may have its own

ending, long before
you set out for Lake
Como, and the need-
ling end of existence.

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It was dark

It was dark when
I thought of you
and tried to call,
but there was no

answer, and then
it seemed even
darker than it had
been, darker than

the night could
muster, blacker
than midnight;
bereft of shades

of dawn, lost in
wondering and
fears which lurk
in the belly of

night, groaning
in the acid of
dissolution; that
refusal to digest.

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Token of self

Edges chipped and worn,
serrated by the soul,
the boundary of self
where time chews slow,

forlorn, and in the simple
doing, and being of us
all, we are remade, re-
formed, reborn, as who

we’re meant to be, while
even in those moments,
we have no knowledge
sure, no sense of what’s

intended, just knowing
there is more; beyond
the mere token that we
see of our material self.

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