The Goddess

Shining like the moon in her dark sky, eyes undefined in a certain gloom, mystical poetess of the evening. Music ambient to her soul, pervasive to her being. She is naked in her clothing, and she smiles in her tears, and she weeps in her joy. She is life's picture, some may think, confused, but she dwells in a higher place, she is knowing, and her speech is pure, and her manner even. And her look, is the least of her, she is not how she looks, she is just exactly, who she is, and envy and greed cannot touch her. And she stands in quietude, without the need to outwardly express what she feels and what it is that she knows that she does not know, and has no way of knowing. And she is goodness and kindness and care, and she is love, and she is the Goddess.

Touch

And when you touch, is it that you touch? Or is it just some place to place pieces of yourself? And when you feel, is it really that you feel, or somewhere to take your emptiness to, to justify yourself, to ease you, to salve that place within yourself, that historically, has learnt that this must be done, that it is convention, that it is expectation. And is it really your truth? Or is it just a way to become in a moment? And they say that it is all in the eyes, but eyes can wink and can be blinkered. And there is someone standing next to you, watching and listening to you, and he watches you until you betray, and then you are gone, and he takes a backwards glance at all of your words and actions, and he stills, and then he moves, and no matter how far or how much he moves sometimes, he cannot escape, that moment that you captivated in, with you. And you, who were you anyway? And the nerve? And the way that you felt that you could use. And did you realize about hurt? And did you think about tomorrow? In this time when you were free from freedom, in a time of libertine glory.

In a Place of Gentle Rain

Tantric lady in the middle of the day, pointing me from the disturbations of an ignorant jealousy, and the walk from your door in the gentle rain, breathing its reward for me, and I thank you again, with quiet feeling, away from the place that you are in, by proxy. And the gentle rain and the kindness of its touch, its soul, and the kindness of your touch, your soul, and the gentleness of the rain that you fell on me, and the day is renewed, and it smiles, and it gives, and my wish is to repay you, and the day that you happened upon, when I happened upon a small part of your day, on a summer's day, when the sky decided on a gentle rain. just to inform, to embrace, and speak with the mind of the rain, to explain where feeling can be taken to, in a place of gentle rain, in a place, where love lies lurking, waiting for the moment of truth.

Art

I know there should be no motivation, no lust for acceptance. Art has to be pure, I know that there should be no reason why. It is just a happening thing, it shouldn't seek reward. Art itself is the reward, and there are different facets of the reward. To understand you need to be in humility, and then again, there is no cause for trying to understand. There is nothing to even attempt to understand, and any way, that kind of thing belongs to dumb intellect. This is the place of delusion, and if you are not aware, it will attempt to suck you in to its deception, to its being removed from truth, to its bullshit, to its lie. Mind so enjoys having an opinion of itself, sometimes it is afraid to just stand still and relax an just be. There is a kind of knowing, that is far removed from intellect, not that intellect can ever really know. Feeling knows, although it will not speak a word. Love knows and it deals in feeling too. This is higher knowledge, and I believe to even suggest knowledge in relation to them is a great insult. So then, there is no real knowledge except for the feelings in the heart. So I guess, to be in touch with the purity of the heart is to know as much as you can know for yourself.

The Music of the Soul

Jealous anger, the mesmerised fool, and the mystery, dark horses in glorious aloneness, comfortable in the personal darkness, where great light awaits, voiceless conversation, and few words of reply, just enough to suggest somehow, and in the quiet, warmth and understanding arrives, a stranger to a stranger, a soul to a soul, and feeling to feeling. And the moment is exactly clear and free and now and awake, and the diversions of mistakes, discarded, knowing that these too were the victims of the jealously, so then, the truth stands before you, waiting for acceptance, and it is sane and understandable, and there is great movement in the apparently passive moment, but there is thunder there too, the peaceful thunder of a justified heart subjected. And the pleasuring song, wants you to dance to its rhythm, and all it asks for you is to believe, to know, to dance to the music of the soul.

You Are the Vain

The life that felt the death in that moment, squaring to each others eyes, and comfort, perhaps of the touch, distracts, alleviates, and then in remembrance, there are smiles that weren't really smiles, and differences that weren't really differences, and kisses that weren't really kisses, in the moment of life, that wasn't really life, and touch, and its memory, sometimes empty and sometimes lingering to the point of, something to thrill to, and the day looks on, it does not opine, it just stands there and looks on in its nakedness. not to be forsaken or ignored, and within the moment, lies the mystery, the place to pursue, to venture to, to seek to be at one with, a place indeed to gain affection from, and then you turn in a moment, only to find that the affection that you sought in a certain direction, has been delivered to you, from a completely different place, it is life, and it is bigger than you could ever think that you are. Life is the power, and you are the vain.

Anger in the Heart

Anger in the heart, expressed towards a distant belief, something that isn't considered and therefore not embraced, and then this anger at some point, finds your gaze, and if you are open enough, questions your self. We are worlds apart, you in yours, and I in mine, and at times a long way from understanding, being blinkered in our ignorance, in our lack of the attempt to understand what it is that is outside of us. The world outside of our own personal world can be a threatening thing, when fear will not allow us the chance to look, to know that our own personal world is not the only world in the world, peace dwells next door, and all it takes is a ring on the bell, and when the heart is open, and is one with your own personal truth, will reply to you in a truthful way. And peace in its own gentle way, will destroy the anger, when you decide to be at one with it, and all it takes is nothing. Nothing to argue about and nothing to fight for, and nothing to feel different with others about, and so then, nothing becomes everything, nothing is love, and nothing is peace, and nothing is understanding, and nothing is the God within.

The Question

Speaking to me wth your touch, in the dimly lit room in summertime, love lives in the room next door presumably, and she darts like a butterfly, settling here and settling there, and so you dwell, sweet lady in the door next to love, in focus, concentrated, and then so, we come together once again, in moments of our lives, you for your reason, and I, for mine, and now the moment of being with you, doesn't wish to leave or betray you, wishes to be constant to you, and recent memory, and I think perhaps, that you fit the most with my style, with my need, outside of permanancy, and before, I had thought of some kind of future guilt, of indignity, and now it has been swept aside, and eyes collide at a point of difference, and the moon looks on, questioning me, and no doubt you, and my answer is yet in the making, and I wonder if you have even yet heard the question.