Poetic Alleghory: Tears Begotten by the Undying Fire of Reason
Posted: Mon Nov 05, 2018 11:08 pm
A paradox of divinity arises through the influence of time where what we deem true and lasting is inevitably subject to some form of change, a death so to speak, in which eternity becomes fragmented and torn asunder.
Space is divided from space, "meaning" becomes a faint whisper of a time now grown old hobbling along and crippled, a head bowed low staring in the same dirt its faith is now layed in.
The "eternal" now that gives such deep impression and value to the facet of memory consumed under a veil acting as the heaviest of all burdens, direction of one will intersects the seperation of another to form what is incomprehensible. Both but mere measuring rods used as staffs to hold the feeble, for explanation is of little support to the aged mind and fails as a third leg if one has no legs to stand on.
"Now" becomes its own memory of memory endlessly repeating itself, reason is clouded under an undying dark fire competing with its own twilight.
Shadows flicker, in the form of light, as the mind puts its hand against the walls of "once-knowing" to form images hoping this entertainment brings some distraction under a faint hope of relief supported by grief.
Rain gently gives resonance to the quiet play as tears weighted by torment and anguish. A beating heart crying to forget the thought of being forgotten, striking the great mass of the cave of one's own self, gives a subtle rhythm in accords with this quiet river of thoughtlessness.
An ensemble is given birth in accords to the flow, drifting through its passenger, as a time in and unto itself.
The great "play" gives a subtle message of "delirium", reflecting the passing of time as one thought becomes many and many become one.
But what is delirium but a distraction? From what? Or rather to what? What is its course? It's destination? This in itself is shrouded under a perpetual unfoldment that consumes the will, under a simple and naive faith gifted to it as a sacrifice intent on seeing value, but receiving none.
This veil, that which is without form and weighing upon all perception is but as a shadow of the self through a cross of nihislism, bending the back and contorting it.
A broken strength is reminiscent of but one eternal memory of a war within the self, through the self, as the self for some semblance of order, some semblance of tranquility in the desire that these memories of meaning be true and not effigies forged within the imagination.
"A war of all against all" arises, deemed as true and just to some under the word "cause". And yet in the foundation of all seperation, to other's "cause" is a mere blasphemy of the primal ignorance whose cords intertwine into the noose: "Am...I?" This question arises through the I which is uncounted and unaccountable.
"What is meaning?", "What is value?' are just trivial weapons in the great struggle mortality offers to us under a closed hand that gives boundary to both those of cause and those robbed of it, with "those" being the many directions we once moved.
Yet these weapons, mere straws to the Leviathan of swarming thoughts acting as locusts to the flesh, pierce the heart of those who form them. Reason becomes its own spear testing the composition of passion by seperating the bones composed of mere ash and dust which contain them.
For the self is the great mediator of all that which divides, it forms matter through ideal and watches that ideal dissolve within matter. Men go to and fro, asking themselves "what is true?" in this perpetual maelstrom. It is but a mere vain means to form a life raft under the oppressive ocean of opinion hissing in an unholy alliance of roaring despair as oceans rise from oceans.
The heart flickers in the face of this vision but a few more times, in tribute to the old ways, as it dissipates into a cloud of darkness for habit once esteemed becomes a house without foundations in an age of change.
But do these questions allow one to sail through the great dissolution of the many thoughts crackling in the great roaring waves?
For the dripping of water is but the sound of a fire of passion to those who close their eyes and listen. But bloodshot eyes rarely close due to the rivers which form them, carved and fashioned under the prison bars of desire molded in accords to the allusiveness of time. Hearing is not given to open eyes, bound to the lust of containing movements.
And "matter?" really is the question in the face of this great dissolution, for what is deemed as "true thought" becomes darkened under the unknown. For what matters, in the face of this great beast of penetrating gaze pouring forth thoughtlessness as a seed raping the mind of any worth, for those who have refashioned the spear of "value" into a walking stick to help stroll through life, as if burden is but life itself.
A child comes forth from the void, formed from the birth pangs of searing emptiness and a resolute hopelessness of the many, with open hands holding the sway of the celestial spheres under a mere act of letting go.
In a fragmented image of his Son, Man is but a mere empty set of hands, grasping to the stars with one vainly and with the other climbing a pyramid constructed of tombs of "understanding", unwilling and unable to hold his son for fear of seeing a true self.
Body climbs over body, in the Great War of All Against All, directing helpless rage into the heavens, a sacrifice to mere shadows of the self in the face of a percievably dying light of reason.
And what is death, but the division of sight through the idolization of many mirrors? Brother against Brother, Sister Against Sister, all unity torn apart and used as kindling to a fire void of any light, the many mirrors melt into a black one.
A great storm occurs in the face of any "truth", for the smoke of desolation is but the onset of the great tempest. Opposition of Opposers, destruction of the destroyed, the death of the dead, the mind follows the course of the Holy One and gives definition and resolution to the chaos.
Lightning stems from the heart of divine reason in due course dividing the void through itself. Definition connects heaven and earth, mind and material, containing within them whispers of revelation as the tree of life mirrors itself through the skies in a complexity befitting only to a river of light to any mind which has but one eye.
For one eye is left when both are sacrificed to the well from which the knowing drink, whose water is meant only for sacred nature of prisoners and kings.
Crucified in empty space, nailed by false judgement, scourged under the wanton wills of men a universal groan is uttered in the heart of the hanging one "father why have you forsaken me?".
Arms spread out, pulling both nothing and All together in one act of consummation resulting in but three small words of infinite volume and magnitude to which all meaning bows: "So Be It".
A branching of choice laid out with open hands, opened by simplicity and bare, grasping the empty hands of men worn and crooked from holding the hammer of strife as a god made in there own image.
Death dies as a small white fire burning through the torrential veil of tears consuming despair to release an fragrant incense of "purpose".
"For what is man but a mortal god, and God but an immortal man?"***
In the face of the infinite capacity to measure and give form and function, creation becomes its own judgement singing both generation and generosity under the light and darkness of a sky formed by both one and many stars...for in light there is unity but darkness multiplicity.
And all of this occuring in where? The sense of sight? To say so is madness, for what is sight in the land of the dead? And yet all is madness as death measures itself into the scale of life, perpetually pouring forth and found wanting under the One Eye as mere potentiality encapsulate through self-reflection.
Being becomes transformed in one question, giving victory to itself and war to nothing, "Who is Like God?"
***sentence copied from seperate source. Not original.
Space is divided from space, "meaning" becomes a faint whisper of a time now grown old hobbling along and crippled, a head bowed low staring in the same dirt its faith is now layed in.
The "eternal" now that gives such deep impression and value to the facet of memory consumed under a veil acting as the heaviest of all burdens, direction of one will intersects the seperation of another to form what is incomprehensible. Both but mere measuring rods used as staffs to hold the feeble, for explanation is of little support to the aged mind and fails as a third leg if one has no legs to stand on.
"Now" becomes its own memory of memory endlessly repeating itself, reason is clouded under an undying dark fire competing with its own twilight.
Shadows flicker, in the form of light, as the mind puts its hand against the walls of "once-knowing" to form images hoping this entertainment brings some distraction under a faint hope of relief supported by grief.
Rain gently gives resonance to the quiet play as tears weighted by torment and anguish. A beating heart crying to forget the thought of being forgotten, striking the great mass of the cave of one's own self, gives a subtle rhythm in accords with this quiet river of thoughtlessness.
An ensemble is given birth in accords to the flow, drifting through its passenger, as a time in and unto itself.
The great "play" gives a subtle message of "delirium", reflecting the passing of time as one thought becomes many and many become one.
But what is delirium but a distraction? From what? Or rather to what? What is its course? It's destination? This in itself is shrouded under a perpetual unfoldment that consumes the will, under a simple and naive faith gifted to it as a sacrifice intent on seeing value, but receiving none.
This veil, that which is without form and weighing upon all perception is but as a shadow of the self through a cross of nihislism, bending the back and contorting it.
A broken strength is reminiscent of but one eternal memory of a war within the self, through the self, as the self for some semblance of order, some semblance of tranquility in the desire that these memories of meaning be true and not effigies forged within the imagination.
"A war of all against all" arises, deemed as true and just to some under the word "cause". And yet in the foundation of all seperation, to other's "cause" is a mere blasphemy of the primal ignorance whose cords intertwine into the noose: "Am...I?" This question arises through the I which is uncounted and unaccountable.
"What is meaning?", "What is value?' are just trivial weapons in the great struggle mortality offers to us under a closed hand that gives boundary to both those of cause and those robbed of it, with "those" being the many directions we once moved.
Yet these weapons, mere straws to the Leviathan of swarming thoughts acting as locusts to the flesh, pierce the heart of those who form them. Reason becomes its own spear testing the composition of passion by seperating the bones composed of mere ash and dust which contain them.
For the self is the great mediator of all that which divides, it forms matter through ideal and watches that ideal dissolve within matter. Men go to and fro, asking themselves "what is true?" in this perpetual maelstrom. It is but a mere vain means to form a life raft under the oppressive ocean of opinion hissing in an unholy alliance of roaring despair as oceans rise from oceans.
The heart flickers in the face of this vision but a few more times, in tribute to the old ways, as it dissipates into a cloud of darkness for habit once esteemed becomes a house without foundations in an age of change.
But do these questions allow one to sail through the great dissolution of the many thoughts crackling in the great roaring waves?
For the dripping of water is but the sound of a fire of passion to those who close their eyes and listen. But bloodshot eyes rarely close due to the rivers which form them, carved and fashioned under the prison bars of desire molded in accords to the allusiveness of time. Hearing is not given to open eyes, bound to the lust of containing movements.
And "matter?" really is the question in the face of this great dissolution, for what is deemed as "true thought" becomes darkened under the unknown. For what matters, in the face of this great beast of penetrating gaze pouring forth thoughtlessness as a seed raping the mind of any worth, for those who have refashioned the spear of "value" into a walking stick to help stroll through life, as if burden is but life itself.
A child comes forth from the void, formed from the birth pangs of searing emptiness and a resolute hopelessness of the many, with open hands holding the sway of the celestial spheres under a mere act of letting go.
In a fragmented image of his Son, Man is but a mere empty set of hands, grasping to the stars with one vainly and with the other climbing a pyramid constructed of tombs of "understanding", unwilling and unable to hold his son for fear of seeing a true self.
Body climbs over body, in the Great War of All Against All, directing helpless rage into the heavens, a sacrifice to mere shadows of the self in the face of a percievably dying light of reason.
And what is death, but the division of sight through the idolization of many mirrors? Brother against Brother, Sister Against Sister, all unity torn apart and used as kindling to a fire void of any light, the many mirrors melt into a black one.
A great storm occurs in the face of any "truth", for the smoke of desolation is but the onset of the great tempest. Opposition of Opposers, destruction of the destroyed, the death of the dead, the mind follows the course of the Holy One and gives definition and resolution to the chaos.
Lightning stems from the heart of divine reason in due course dividing the void through itself. Definition connects heaven and earth, mind and material, containing within them whispers of revelation as the tree of life mirrors itself through the skies in a complexity befitting only to a river of light to any mind which has but one eye.
For one eye is left when both are sacrificed to the well from which the knowing drink, whose water is meant only for sacred nature of prisoners and kings.
Crucified in empty space, nailed by false judgement, scourged under the wanton wills of men a universal groan is uttered in the heart of the hanging one "father why have you forsaken me?".
Arms spread out, pulling both nothing and All together in one act of consummation resulting in but three small words of infinite volume and magnitude to which all meaning bows: "So Be It".
A branching of choice laid out with open hands, opened by simplicity and bare, grasping the empty hands of men worn and crooked from holding the hammer of strife as a god made in there own image.
Death dies as a small white fire burning through the torrential veil of tears consuming despair to release an fragrant incense of "purpose".
"For what is man but a mortal god, and God but an immortal man?"***
In the face of the infinite capacity to measure and give form and function, creation becomes its own judgement singing both generation and generosity under the light and darkness of a sky formed by both one and many stars...for in light there is unity but darkness multiplicity.
And all of this occuring in where? The sense of sight? To say so is madness, for what is sight in the land of the dead? And yet all is madness as death measures itself into the scale of life, perpetually pouring forth and found wanting under the One Eye as mere potentiality encapsulate through self-reflection.
Being becomes transformed in one question, giving victory to itself and war to nothing, "Who is Like God?"
***sentence copied from seperate source. Not original.