“Darkness will be preferred to light, and death will be thought more profitable than life; no one will raise his eyes to heaven; the pious will be deemed insane, and the impious wise; the madman will be thought a brave man, and the wicked will be esteemed as good.” -The Prophecy of Thoth
There will come a time, the ancients said, when Planet Earth is severed from the Spirit. As mystics strive to reconnect the thread with sacred speech, the people will not hear it.
Redemption must go deeper than the words to overthrow the pattern of stagnation in human consciousness that undergirds our currents of decline in co-creation.
For only when the willingness of one and all anothers unified by reason to forge ahead together has begun will heaven manifest its winning season.
And each alone can activate the glue that binds us to the cosmic retinue.
Before she’s drawn a second breath or viewed her mother’s face, a newborn seeks the breast. No special training’s needed, there’s no test for measuring a baby’s aptitude or mother’s love. The cycle is renewed as fed becomes the feeder, doubly blessed with strength. Instinctively, we all ingest the substance packed in life-sustaining food.
So why should care and feeding of the soul be shrouded in enigma? Through the worst imponderable doubts, our Living Guide extends a standing offer: “Here’s a bowl of hearty stew for free.” And with a burst of sight, the inner cynic’s pacified.
A brain cannot absorb more than its mass. I tell myself it helps to let it drain in seeking to achieve a higher plane. How often, wearing blinders, do we pass the Buddha Image in a blade of grass or shun the light beyond the windowpane for fear its pull will render us insane? My will is steel, my spirit tempered glass.
Yet there are times the mind will not be barred from grappling with enigma. Nonchalance won’t turn the key to wisdom or prepare the soul for nourishment. Without regard for tethered cognizance, my psyche wants to conquer obfuscation in the air.
The mistress cracks a psychic whip, and he,
a blinder-fitted plodding workhorse bound
by honor, hopes to find a patch of ground
that won’t give way beneath his hoof. To be
or not to be, his sole identity
derives from someone leading him around
in circles, heaping judgment pound for pound
with unequivocating certainty.
He’d never think of putting up a fight,
for every time he jumps, she lifts the bar
to keep his motivation locked up tight,
convinced that it can never venture far
from her own brand of patent black-and-white
philosophy, “I think, therefore you are.”
Adaptable, dependable, designed
explicitly to fill a threaded slot,
you serve, content to be yourself. You’re not
a bolt, but when some nut gets in a bind,
you’ll spiral in if qualified. Maligned
and snickered-at behind your back? So what?
Opinions turn you neither cold nor hot —
that’s not the way your character’s defined.
For whether long or short or fat or thin,
or backing out or boldly pressing through,
the key is in the willingness to spin
according to the job one’s called to do.
Humanity could learn a lesson in
the perseverance of a lowly screw.
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