Thursday, October 3, 2013

Our False God (Forty-Seven Years Old, Broke Black Prophet, Near Salvation) October 03, 2013


I hear nothing in the house.  I hear the sounds outside this very window I am sitting next to, looking down at the woods (that used to be painted green, a now greenish gold)… writing.  Pondering.  Thinking.  Musing.  Sashaying.  And Feeling. 

The house is still, funeralisticly quiet.  One might say, quite deathly.  But what do I think death is?  This greater than life entity, death: is going to be this loud blare of infinite voices hollering in terror as One to make this terrible sound which one cannot bare to make the death more painful?  This God of Death?  Well, the only thing I can tell you is:  Death has better things to do, and it too moves on to the next one, quickly.

We have learned nothing from our pasts voices.  Leaving traces of the past so we may last.  But that is the danger, one tries to live forever from leaving those same traces from our past to continue with…Life.  But Death has always been a sly one.  Death peeps the game and decides to turn those Lives against one another.  And Life has always lost.  Big ol goose egg.  Loser!  But we keep signing contracts with our individual Lives to that same losing team of, Life. 

And we have a God given choice to believe in any God we want to be true. 

Damn-right-about-that!  Amen!

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