time caressed the desert dust, spread as living dreams,
so did the camel pass through needle's waiting eye,
and in that crushed, deep driving force delivered;
so was the myth made manifest through endless sky.
Those archetypes did drift in resinous waiting sleep,
as clouds like trees did hold, and lifted desperate branch,
so angels roused from idleness were gathered round;
hope flounced dress in shivers, fragile as mere chance.
Tight the Goddess wove her truth into material, managed form,
where words held close to number, brought reality to birth,
and Fate does know who then to kiss and hold in settled place;
across the ditch which keeps pure heaven from this earth.
Souls did sit in patience, sipping slow their all-forgetting tea,
that cup of brew which would remove all knowledge of the cost,
the cloth of memory wiped clean, brushed that dark, forgotten door;
thought falls quietly into the hole of deep unknowing, and is lost.
As Snow White opened wide thin, reddened lips to surely bite,
upon the apple Eve had thrown delighted, into the cosmic ring,
so did the future stir and hopes of incarnation begin again to foam;
Self held hands with Spirit, smiled at Soul, as dawn began to sing.
cradle slow in forming fractalicious shape,
that dance of pure becoming wrought in silent, perfect steps,
and in the doing so creation does display and twist as minuet;
time holds out the baton, determines when there will be rest.
Within the cultured moments of the endless active hours,
there comes a perfect balance then made manifest, revealed,
in purpose calligraphed upon the heavens truth has wrought;
so then is meaning, purpose and intent no more concealed.
Slow breathing into being is the call from angels sung,
and trusting that the process will endure, forever moving on,
then does the mind of God incarnate in the material world;
so are we birthed to our becoming, whether short or long.
within the almost seen, scramble in the mind,
to rummage through the coats of past, seeking so to find,
who I am and who I was and who I still might be;
so does love draw gentle hands across eternity.
Who was I then, who am I now, and who will I become,
so do the questions roll and taunt when certainty is gone,
and who I might have been, or could, has drifted on the wind;
so do potentials reach an end, before we can begin.
That morning when I woke in fear and huddled into Self,
as dreams and deep imaginings were tumbling from the shelf,
so then I saw in scattered wreck the tramplings of my heart;
and realised, that who I was, had never played a part.
And yet it had been written, this tortured, searching path,
which led from birth and on to death, as pure and soulful art,
for in the journey to become, to know and render true;
I learned the shape of what was me, perceived, what was called you.