He, who collects the wayward souls of Man.
Climb aboard this wayward vessel ye wandering spirits.
This boat this paddle of will drives forth.
This raft, this ferry drawing the tides of man.
Oh the Chariot of the Sun.
The wandering fool some would say, or call to him as a king of rags.
Living in the splendour of itself.
Seeking the ultimate pleasures of consumption.
In the pure romantic sense of the word consumption.
To consume another's company, time and radiant presence.
To consume all things and make them one with yourself.
Oh these, the loathsome ways of a taintless cur.
The seamless parralels of chaos and order.
As my tongue slides across the surface of your cheek in jest and sorrow, as an answer to your desperate seeking you'll see.
Answers are always the same only questions change you see.
Asking is seeking in falsehood, through speech.
How could God be sure of what is, and of what it is and how it all works if it's nature is in power over all things, in the whimsy, or will rather toward perfection and improvement or change?
It's the best you'll get at any time.
For the sprawling infinity even if bound to a form walking as a presence of matter still couldn't call to know what is, beyond a moment of lapsing judgement and surging pride, yet even that is human flaw, in so being, restricted only to us they say.
It is a limitless perfection framed as imperfection by imperfections mere implication.
I call to it as such and so it rings like chimes and bells, it hits like the impact of a body thrown from a bell tower or a castle parapet.
With a sad but realistic crunch.
More now than ever have you seen God.
Here through vain grasping at whisps of transient concepts like wisdom I claw out from the space between you and I the few words any could ever hear that would bleed the messianic, nihilistic wholism of gods truth which can never be the same as yours or theirs.
You could ken this independence only through disconnection just to find yourself thinking with gods mind walking in the makers footsteps backward toward the sheer quantum nature of this deeper truth of pure dependence.
I rest in the bosom of your fate and of mercy, come and see.
You now, are a Worm picked at by a bird with two heads called God whose necks lead down into the same torso, the same stomach.
In the hands of judgement, already, from birth.
That my death in this world would not be my first and sure as light it would be as far from my last as the pluto is from the sun, should be a staple of action.
I speak through well paced motions of eminance that swell to crash as waves of sound in the core of all souls.
You would hear me still only as a buffer to translate the infinite back to itself.
Like now I'm screaming at you begging you to tell me how I feel and laughing as you pass on the message that I know will only find its way back to my ears.
So I get the message, be quiet.
Forget your faith and posturing, the dust on your knees serve as bruises in our eyes.
Gott Mitt Uns I heard them say once.
That God is with us, here.
Where so much is none of your business through a lack of understanding and attention you are removed from the need to comprehend the in so being all your notions toward that are pretenses for love and acceptance so instead love and acceptance is what you're gifted.
As for this, that you call God and all the infinity majesty of creation.
We see your unwillingness to know through your feigned curiosity that is mostly delegated to the seekers and the pscion.
Can I sit at your table then and eat the food you've prepared?
Can i sleep in your bed and lounge in your hall?
All These questions are all the same.
Only answers change because they have nothing to do with truth.
The answers are all dependant on them and you, not on the truth.
Madness is what you tend in these efforts, rather than piety.
We must experience to know..
Questions lead us nowhere.
Only through and into the storm of themselves.
See it sprawled out writhing violently before you.
Feel it rain down gently on your skin.
If you want to know you need to stop pretending.
All these names that you call things, you as humanity, made up yourself.
How much of what is in me deserves to be measured by what's in you and vice versa.
I would draw you by my chord out of preference too, if it made pretending as easy for me as all this seems to make it for you.
I too could call a Lion a Lioness if I thought lying would make people love me.
If I felt like insulting intelligences and the Glory of the Lion.
Still I don't and still I don't.
Though I mentioned once that I don't believe in God and now they tell me that it's a sign of low self esteem.
I guess we're all lacking confidence at the moment but that might be a good thing for now.
