Cubed.

Eating flowers and singing the sails of my steadfast love, we lift each realized soul to reality of that which we cannot see but must not seethe. Oh Consciousness that catapults our cavalier childhood into that pure point of passion, I am under your purview. Here I herald the happiest happenstances your gift to me and I cannot go there from here without paying homage to my homestead. My holy. Hallowed. When this day does not recognize yesterday's aches, how can we prevent incapacitating guilt from simultaneously loving now and knowing lows, the blows of my mightiest blight? Hatching seeds in the thatch of selfishness is thwarting your business. Its like my busyness is the hitch despondence adheres to and ad hocs that ruse of ruckus, muck and lew doings.

But I know it now and bow down my disobedient discord. You pick up the eyes and set them east, like the star in the east. Wise woman and man making the lightening, an electrifying connection between Provider and provided. How great can you be when you are the Gift, the Giver and the reality of that Giving? I cannot even fathom what such complexity means to me or me to them. It isn't a mistake of semantics that me is in them. But look at that - its reversed, as if I must invert the conceptions I have previously understood. What comes first? The reward for giving or the act?

When you are to the third power on such profundity, your significance is unmatchable.

Neologism

My form of violence is the spreading silence when the internal voices are nothing but self-negating. I am detonated against the worry I wake up with - today I will not refuse to be that which is me. But before I have the opportunity to not refuse, I resist and the renegade begins. Again. If I didn't love death as much as I fear life, I may somehow learn that those verbs are only created in my misconceptions. Since I cannot conceive anything outside my concept of what is alive and that which is absent of life, I never really now if these two possibilities are separate entities. What if they mean the same thing? What if the deceased are not able to comprehend the living in the same way the living cannot identify with the dead? Then maybe those threats would be empty, benign and sordid. To see existence grasped on a notchless timeline, drawn to no knowable scale and in the middle of the longest run on, I may not waste creative space to pander my self-hatred and that denegation would be the greatest mockery of (wo)man. Rather I would wait not one more minute to make my wings the way of the majestic. The mourning that bellows - the unmuffled moratorium on mental misbehaving - is only the beautiful music that allows creation to reach out to creator in that one moment when a space between I and thou is recognized. Though the space may be small it is the only thing I can think about. It ravages my concentration. It demands my attention. It is the love I am learning to articulate and ambulate to a world I am called to make accustomed to grace and faith.

Because I create my misconceptions. Clarity is the universal denominator - the mathematical truth from Providence. I am the one making up words and the meaning to those words.