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My oeuvres stare at me with a frown,
For they lie unrecited
Cos I have not an audience
I fear: even the third eye blind
Shimmering of darkness with fickle sparks,
Became the order I fret,
The change I never embrace
And the pain I hide from
Gulped hard bones that still choke my
throat
How can the powers flow through the eye
above my eyes
And down to the passage of my gullet
How can it ever get to my navel?
Gird itself round my loins
For my centres are all blunted
Like Adam I ate the forbidden fruit and ran
from the garden
Partake of the tree of life they said
Even that I tasted yet my soul lies in this
void
Uncanny like my paranormal mates
We lie in dust, folly and nothingness
We speak words of gods yet we lay in waste
We are crown with wisdom, yet in folly we
abide
Our many oeuvres sleep in journals, laptops
and more
Hoping that death may come in haste
And maybe a dimwit dares put them in print
I bet the world will be doomed of our
madness and sweetness
As
of old, I remember Mr Allen, Cayce, Collier and many from ages gone
Like them we hope to be,
But we forget the centre within the centre
of their mysteries
It is simple, nothing from the usual.
Even in this emptiness He beckons
As I watch nature’s voice
And hear humanity’s fear
As I lie poised in the melodious noise they
make
Still I see Him, hear Him and even touch
Him
And He knows I hate Him not neither my
mates
We love Him more than love
We worship Him more than nature
In Him, we live, move and have our being
Like poets of old.
We, I, just hate religion
But, we, I,miss CHRIST in RELIGION.
May our oeuvres find an audience who
understands love like Love.
