Must
it be devoid of human effects in order to be deemed as Divine?
If
it comes by humans, do we exclude those parts that we fail to describe?
If
we participate in creating what we define as extra-energies does this vitiate
Divine beliefs?
Participation: “Return to me and
I shall return to you”: “They will do greater things.”
I
felt ghosts, or more brains, or arts to life this furious temper—as offsetting
balance, this shaded warfare, sickle’d by neurotransmitters—to exhaust this
metal, while smelting realities, to arise by another’s enchantment: those
chiseled gifts, as perfected with strain, while reaping our godly affections—to
die with living, as living by dying, a tare upset that tempest of
blankness—where mother cries, as pitted in limbo, while we arise to deliver
that soul: this flogging of spirits, or arousal of pains, to tap into
particular miseries—as shelving to harness, those medley of forces, by methods
to evoke one fatal blast: our hearts to pillars, shivering in ecstasy, as
becoming addictive feelings—to have that soul, awakened so soon, over a century
of chasing; as sewing jadedness, or threshing madness, by eyes an intimate
soul: if but to love, by chase our eternity, arriving too early as fraught by
laughter: this gripping cadence; that buoyant rupture; our days at familiarity
by newness: those willows bending; those morbid attitudes; our given to love
our illness—that faint joy, as smothered by pains, affected with sweltering
deserts. [(We sought deception, so
accidentally, as revved as angry wolves—to repeat a habit, while depriving
senses, by chance to alter awareness: that candid focus, as tormenting
exposure, while deeply concentrated—as affecting persons, by becoming frenzied,
to compose by such excellence—where rhetoric prevailed, while receiving
formula, to render such enrichment: as never to mirrors, while tapping into
forces, to admit there comes by abstract occurrence; to chase that entity, as
refusing its dominance, while slight to heart a godly complex: this egregious
pain, to want that art, by days three hours of rest—or arts by substance, to
claim our mirrors, while divesting those souls that listen; as never to speech,
but sheer affectation, to arise by moments a giant)]. It delivers souls, while depriving souls, as caked
with petals a blank explanation—to die with souls, as to live immortally, while
stippled by partial evaluations: this driven space, to come with time, as never
but chance—as driven by chance, equipped with fury, to outwit chance; that torn
conundrum, trekking steep terrain, but a berry by hallucinations—or cautious a
soul, feasting on fasting, nurtured by human chemistry: deriving here; as
adding there; while sentenced to too much information: that love by misery,
upon something birthed, while angled at something divine; to know by angst,
this vault of volts, while concerned with howling winds; to culture with time,
as one emphatic, while subtle this war for monopolies: our aglet souls, as
unlocking stars, forced by fevers to reflect: our years to Plato, by waves
through Augustine, while at deep amore for Anselm—to finally assert, this
element by aches, to chance by pure
involvement—that telic heart, as informed a galaxy, at rites to Jung’s memoirs:
while mystics dance, those years to studies, at woes this diversity of tenets;
as yogis dine, to wrestle leviathan, our roots depicting human faces—as divine
souls, steeped in sciences, a cry from blissful hells.
