A morning risen into the dangerously cursed yet somehow gifted living carapace. Back to the years of trenches in illness. Figurative lenses, amplify the wondrously personified rift as perturbing through this Psyche and Spirit. Nothing and everything consume thy all well-deserved gone wishes. Unable to escape the grasp, controls thyself as ever wildly many rides it out to the inexplicable end. Unpredictable threads of fate ...if only controlled in our direction someway to Desires, enabled or can possibly be disabled? How or how soon? Once to its point where the Sage of Time hands over the Clock in pity as the Silver stars fall and rain.
Seven muted words felt across thy ones' chest burnt branded like cattle while bitten on the forearm venomously. Feeling what one takes as the Mark of 'Stigmata'? A born Hex of the womb. So far, we no longer feel its light. Drowned out into the nocturne. If one agrees to disagree in abstain desolation; the Hexagram that invaluably shakes itself instantly and vulnerably throw worthlessly upon our Crown or Halo. Too at what was once vigorously in through ourselves. The Consciousness vs the Subconscious becomes the Hurricane of chaos that destroys everything in its path. We sweep destruction just wanting to stop and die out and in through it all the death the Hurricane we become ourselves. Until the final breath is a deep swallow of remaining life oxygen as exhaling it, we are finally evaporated to oblivion. Yet caused so much harm and damage. For what was it all worth? Coexistence, balance, recreations, rebirth?
Pass through this? Veil thy distorted wails.
Pass through this? May the epiphany craved us onto which was too much normalcy expecting too many miracles of hope. Rhythmic Fibonacci?
However, as consistency Energy, we pass through this? Yet the God of Atlas and all of Thy Creations Humans of the Earth (Gaia, Malkuth, Urantia) stomp relentlessly on thy head of ours as too one is entitled to make mistakes always seemed shunned and marked as The Beast in the Kitchen looking at you. Never prevail never at serenity. A Moth finds ways in the Seasons to find another husk cocoon to reform rebirth to.
Paths ferociously dives on thyself. Pushing forward pulls dynamics through the harsh dense fog. Suffering as we have always known to the same repetitive trauma in these personal War Stories of Life carried over in us. Bared in with the New Generation Era in Decade of Synchronizations. Like a willingly embedded genetic amnesia slowly resonating to glow as moments occur. The only gift. False voices from delusions and The Otherside of its Truth. Reality spoken in many imprints, validation and Intuition validation in visions. Like a game of Dominoes, completely tumble upon thunderscapes. One day it'll all unravel thyself a Divine Plan.
But for now. Maybe just for now. Stay here. Stay true. All this will be. Be as it is. What more can one do?