The Recognitions

I.

A rose without thorns would still be as sweet and have another name than ‘rose’, while flowering with a thousand petals. A rose is a rose is a rose is a rose — word without end. 

II.

Who saw behind each mask on meeting enough to know that we would play again? Now to dance until the little I is hollowed. To know that knowing you is an effect, rather than a cause.

Play a mandolin for the moon and the song lasts for lifetimes.  Harmonies reverberate inside the earth to create strong harvests. This is love of the visible at its purest. But I will turn, denied. The will hastens to the true target, although rajaistic intensity in one impure stimulates impatience, depression and disappointment. Besides, to fail is a rose that God provides. The arrow is the target. We are all that; the agalma is always impersonal. Merciful. Love is a symptom, rather than a signal. So let us frolic like lambs amongst wolves with the wisdom of snakes and gentleness of doves; as when half-gods go, the gods arrive.

III.

Like children cupping water from the tub still running. Become empty empty empty of everything (save everything); kenosis. We break one curse and create another, with sticky fingers, to find no immorality, only ignorance. Every perversion remains unresolved and sanctified, suspended in eternal time. Story of the I. And while my fingers bleed as I shuttle between the warp and weft to weave, in this the heart becomes better. The morrow shall take thought for the things of itself. To remain apart but in union, subject to time. The one and the many, only always divine.