Process Until Whole
Beyond these dwellings of existence, and its heavenly predictions. Past chasms & phantasms, and the harbingering of evolutionary sanity.
Unbeknownst I sought, in that I should seek.
Verily the brink of parallel peaks of admonitions & admissions oblique.
What if they meet in me, Forsooth, I bypassed the etch in H un-annunciated.
Should I emancipate the pause then, a sigh would ask if not allowed to liberate in the sky.
The words need to be appetising enough to fulfil soul-food for thought.
Is that what is begot, before the ten of time trots to move narrative focus further into my story. (I would have said ‘his’ story lest third person think of it as past tense).
By all means, not past tense yet.
Taut like a German accent free fräulein on a tight rope; meaning a lot.
Verily then. D-I-S-C-O verily dancing through the point as if it were mist.
Is there is a version in which this makes sense, like the words sweetening the palette into sharper common sense.
Uncommon sense albeit.
All the words in address, as if all at once taken off.
In a tangent, they greet.
Tilting the head sideways as if to see a diamond out of a sooty piece of coal.
Or a star, out of the pattern of a night sky.
My, my, the sigh is loosening in attune.
Melody then, some hot cocoa codependency in chance.
Perchance of parlance of course, some steaming hot beverage in quatrain.
A plane of thought in plain sight.
The doppler effect in resonance like it were a satellite in orbit.
All the sounds are going that way.
But that’s not how a key turns.
Ask a dervish, won’t you, what makes a key turn?
Or rather, say when.
Alphecca - The Dervish's dish. The Gem in the crown. Constellation Corona Borealis.
A coat of quotes and passing poetry
"Praising
Only one who has raised the lyre Praising, that’s it! As one ordered to praisehe emerged like the ore from the silent stone.
His heart, O the transient wine-press, among mankind, of an inexhaustible wine.
When the divine mode grips him, the voice in his mouth never fails.
All becomes vineyard, all becomes grape, grown riper in his feeling’s south.
Neither the must in the tombs of the kings nor from the gods that a shadow falls, detracts at all from his praising.
He’s a messenger, who always remains, still holding far through the doors of the dead a dish with fruit they can praise.
Only one who has raised the lyre already, among the shades, may sense how to return the unending praise.
Only one who, with the dead, ate of the poppy, theirs, from them, will not lose the slightest note ever again.
Wish even the image in the pond that blurs for us, often: know the reflection.
Only within the double sphere will the voices become kind, and eternal.
"Praising | Rainer Marie Rilke