Morning Meditation

So much more, Father—this immortal calm, as a bit restless; that further communion, those inner eyes, that mystic electricity; to see this Face, blurred at exits, confined to entrances; that blankness, as shadowed in majesty, too bold for fainted hearts. We’ve lived as kings, to soar as queens—so much more, Mother. I’m enchanted fire, at converse this soul, as casual as a lit candle: flickering by souls, at communion but a nation, sparked as one demented; this florid light, those inner ornaments—this powerful woman: born to cobblestones; attracted to rare spirits; at hearts this voyage through cities; to cry her name, as synonymous with Life, while pulled through God’s Ethics; this wailing love, as seeking its motive, alive that second of converse: our virgin hearts, stationed at virgin minds, but long to outlive our traumas; as more than a, Father—so much more than a, Mother—this independent-dependence; to teach us war, at love for swans, while cheeks are destroyed at follicles. I’m enchanted fire, agaze by powers, longing this endless adventure; to pause at turns, as to absorb this mansion, running through fields: this lavish Wind, to encircle a soul, while She sits in Wisdom; this type of torture, for days are Faceless, aside for images this woman; to meet a heart, so powerful a dream, as quiescent as nameless portraits: that trek to souls; that bashful cry; that bawling by flames our minds; to court energy, so young to woes, as if mother ruined innocence—at some degree, for times are distant, while to rant as raving for her soul; but nights are warm, sitting in communion, aspark this furnace of Christ; as pure orientation, to have this tradition, where by practice a dimension opened: that soaring Arc; Our pregnant Mary; that Virgin Birth; to fly so harshly, as to live so gently, this movie as grandiosity—or more a dream, but to feel that Channel, amazed by sheer ecstasy; this endless Woman, this woman’s friend, as seeping into our shadows. I’m enchanted fire, streaming through rivers, at clouds with afflictions; to see this child, as living our lives, so cold her convictions; to warm her heart, while tiptoeing caves, as cherished by souls: those times for vengeance; as morphed into love; while this woman watches; to judge his heart, this purported furnace, charged by negligence this force; to see this future, outlined in majesty, as to meet unsaid daughter; this mystic soul, crying from hurt, as to hear a silent curse; but more to Mother, this ecstatic Father, veering into immortal souls; to grip those palms, as blood to brine—this reed made of glory; to suffer my life, as to meet this power, ashamed for crying vengeance.