Wednesday, June 6, 2012

Rosicrucian: Mystical Knowledge Of & Power Over Certain Forces Of Nature

Dank the deep.
It seeps what some wept.
Bloodied were the eyes of few,
I held tight to all I knew.

A soul-less creature of that I was.
I am! A thing!
That is still missing!!
No Heart; Emotions trade upon the Winds of what is made. 

Left so quickly.
Not one human thought.
What would happen? If her Soul was bought?

Terror filled my lacking of such a crime.
Demands were made, they were not mine.
Anger stilled in front of what deprives thee now.

What a thought to think today.

I have read, 10th Grade, are Graduates made.
To keep it simple in words, not Rote:
'A mechanical routine'
Repetition without understanding.

Compare this to,
"The roar of the surf."

A Note will carry a tune.
If not; A deaf, mute you are.
For then:
It may be a car that can deliver such rumblings from afar.

For "Hope" in general should just be.
No humbling or begging; Presumably.

Knod off these notions.
For they must be only old ideas: "I seethe."
Since Hope of Sense is crumbling.

The fence of "Worldly Deeds,"
obligations which we need,
for men to stand, not plead.

It is leaning on me,
to speak of what is so unheavenly.

Authors of speech and say.
Tweet each other every day.
As words become symbols and format is fumbling,
our languages are lost to 
"The Ages Of Shame"

Belief in Rosicrucianism will not be to blame.


"DEATH, so called, is a thing that makes men weep,
and yet a third of life is passed in sleep."


For Parchments Sake

On parchment dried and hung for Creed
I stared upon what I thought was.

Not for sake of wonderment;
But, for sake of sane.

Could in a moment:
A Soul?
A Heart?
And what I saw be gone?

Leaving only witness to Decree?

A dipping well with pen which did lap ink,
a thin, long bone, with marrow spared, the feather must have flown.
It tipped the thick and dark-like substance, red ink it seemed once moved.
drawn-up within the thread, blood?

"This Child...."
The words poured,
like the sink I heard no more.

"Where did all that......?
 Where did that young boy go?"
I seemed further from myself
the distance seemed to grow, the louder I seemed to be.

I sank to "NO" that I was next:
A wet, a skin-like shawl stopped me.

"A lamp, I'm not"
I screeched!

"Nor girl of Soul, I take"

"Heed yourself"
An unearthly voice spoke in serious stake.

For there it ends for me.
My soul doth take,
I no longer need,
to toil upon such deed.

A Race Without A Bell To Ring!!

 My thoughts are full of screaming,
my eyes Eternally Seeing.
Fright of what horror is bringing,
for all of you to hear.

Deafness towards internal views
has angered soul-less Muse.
In a vexed and cursed reach,
she hates the words you seethe.

The Devil himself will check.
Just to look; To speak.
"Do You exist?"
"Are you mute of speech in mouth and not of Mind?"
"Spill filth?"

Questions asked; Evolution states;
with calm report as Creation repents.
"Must one be separate in total?
for Peace to even make sense?"

Sadly in response,
the Ancient Wheel turns,

"Mine is no horse with wings, to gain.
The region of the Spheral chime;
He does but drag a rumbling wain,
Cheered by the coupled bells of rhyme."


The Age Of Sage

The width of what stands between
is often never seen.
Nature reveals the kindness of mean
by enabling us to do what is clean.

Assumptions of Human Beings
crush all of the Ones with Wings.
It is the innocence of hope it seems
that can deliver simply everything.

Our youth in this Universal Stance,
of what is a Galatical view
lends towards a kinder outcome.
In-spite of all of You!!

Turning away from a natural cry,
is a simple way for you to say,
"Help Yourself."

Places guilt upon not silt:
For you seem not normal.

Inasmuch as you tend to point,
the blame at every boy and girl; Possession.

Possession, seems a Degree

I know I feel the heat within me!!

No match can be made,
if rape receives aid
from Pastors, Ministers
in Lands far away.

Our color has no preference to you!
In common you would have thought; 


It is the silence that bonds our lives
this is what takes us to the very brink.

Kicking us out:  All You Shout.
These are repetitive sentences
with no way out.

Our Words?
Which ones?
"Speak" You scream.

We are weak.
Age Five is dangerous
and most of us Die!