Year of the snake indeed!
But how many will emerge slithering from that tree’s dark hollow?
And can we block its rotting entrance to keep them contained,
Or must we lop off each hissing head hoping it doesn't hydra?
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There’s a rich witch of word rotting dank the old-world,
Brewing in a country mansion full of black smug mold,
She strung a story of magic that turned her head gold,
Then fought her body worshiping the dual idol images,
Seeking a vanished world of black and white simplicity,
To keep on way them dark cadavers of her richest tale,
That kept pure an influence to obsess her indifference,
Weaving out turfing hag-rags oppressing scapegoats.
She was scared to broom relief a bathroom,
Fearing wand might slip-side her gold toilet,
For she saw herself as only a sexual woman,
Never knowing feminine gender's liberation,
Rambling dazed in rooms she didn't belong,
Falling logged a splashing driftwood duck,
Yet clean waters rejected such putrid stank,
Floating her up to heaven as a foul wafting.
She’s a witch of the worst caliber I do say,
And I've met many a decently kind witch,
But the spells she cast grew moldy purity,
Being wayward as her chosen one vanity,
Each hissing with the courage of a snake.
For a golden head is not for well-thinking,
As a Midas hand only hardens members.
And a woman with a hardened rich head,
Is such a witchy burden on all the others,
Much as a flailing gold hand a horny man,
Is a wand of trouble for innocents of land.
But it’s so sad, isn’t?
When you become that haggy trixy character you’ve written into stories,
Serving a dark lords purpose afflicting torture on the ‘unpure’ expression,
All while thinking you’re an intelligent granger squirming cursed on floor.
Then again, her grimoire made special place for slaves and stereotypes.
How hard it must be, being a rich witch given the world,
To loose it warring words favouring discriminating hatred,
Surrounding oneself in an echo chamber reverbing curses.
I do hope the curses that follow my writing spells don’t end me smug moldy,
And so, no icons of duality do I worship as true understanding of complexity,
And no hoarders gold will I try keep, for a hard head and hand I do not seek,
Just the lines that flow an inner eye, to spread a body’s mind into fullest time,
So from honest love I script, from justice I seek, to end this dark magic cruelty.
Be gone you richy witchy, back to your mansion!
To gleam at gold and glare stare snake friends,
To hide your stench in a field of scented flowers.
Your dark lord may have risen, giving such pride,
But we know, the good people's will does decide,
For your curses have rebounded reek in heaven,
Becoming a smaug glow of gilded imperfection,
Prone to a bard spearing that dark magic heart,
To quell rage-fire burning innocents of the land.
Blinding wealth aligned your house cruelly for unjust war,
So a snake you became pretending to have a lion’s heart.
But hear me roar rich witch, for we rise this day refreshed,
But your curses have ended you a smoulder in smug mold,
And your endless gold hoard will never save your split soul,
Nor your snaky friends whisper any words that may consol.
To be given so much,
To only take from others,
Idolizing your false purity,
Obsessing hollow divinity,
Instead of offering real love,
Is a tale that will last the ages.
And so, as a stereotype will I trap you in time,
As you’ve expected upon others expression:
“The northern rich witch of word,
Who spell bound an entire world,
Offering treats and magic wands,
That split her soul a golden head,
To look in mirrors her sexual body,
Hardening her ravaging appetite,
To go feast on harmless children,
Stalking the innocent in lavatories,
Corrupting town courts to cruelty,
Torturing to gratify a dualistic god,
Till sealed in a black mold mansion,
With only snake hisses reaffirming,
In flower fields to mask the rotting,
Having no paths to guide any near.”
Can you tell me the end of the universe?
If I ask you, do you see cold rock and ice?
Cause yes, there is always death at the ending,
But the simplest thing to know is our sleeping,
Where dreams are unloaded letting live again,
Knowledge's experience returning to shadow.
But I ask, what is the point of spiritual life,
Why a growth on stone taking space flight?
And if it is able to progress, to a future sustained for the common,
Then how long does it have to stretch consciousness across stars,
And how many universal eons will mass into ever larger networks?
Will it stretch a solar system, a spiraling star laden galaxy,
Or expand into the superclusters and down long spines?
And what if the universe it was meant to fill into?
To understand its fullest extents then merge single,
Looking out from this universe to see many others,
Using its networks to understand infinite multi-ray?
We are but a small piece of an ever-growing thought,
That bubbles into an amalgamation of itself thinking,
And this earth is a tiny speck in its stretching network,
Who’s purpose is to connect further beyond a thought.
So look at this world and see the journey we’ve been on,
And know that you are a conscious speck of this planet,
A node of thought that stretches mind across all lands,
As cells in your body are specks bringing you into a self,
As a planet is a speck that can network a starry galaxy,
And galaxy a speck that connects supercluster chords,
And a supercluster to bring a universe into its thoughts,
And a light filled universe to see darkness beyond itself,
So it may begin the cellular process again with another.
This is the swell of consciousness,
Not only growth, but understanding,
By congealing scales of awareness,
So a thing that is many within itself,
May look out and be none by other,
Growing its understanding beyond.
And when at last this planet is a cell,
The cosmic eye will look back at us,
So that we may become fuller by it.
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