honey. gold. myrrh.

Many years of barrenness have I notched into my belt. And I nearly became a waif and a wight.

Indeed I had built a stone crypt and altar hideous beneath the ground and thought perhaps to feed on wayfarers and entrap them and indeed I had entrapped some and others merely feasted upon and let them go.

And now I have crushed that terrible crypt, hill, stone, altar and knives too all beneath a single step of my mighty glorious foot. For I have been raised upon high, higher than I had ever known the gods to soar.

And my days are filled with loving and sweetness untold. For I have had to store honeycomb in caskets rich with gold and jewels. Each of 1,224 caskets of pure gold overlaid upon silver bars thick and weighty—emeralds encrust them. Each cake I wrap in linens dipped in myrrh and linen fit for a god. And even these I am filling faster than I could imagine and soon I will move my hand and create greater caskets and barrels and soon I shall store my honeycomb—each sweeter and heavier and darker and richer and wilder than the purest honey of queen bees—richer than the food of queens and the desire of kings—each so pure that for a commoner to think on it would merit death—quick death and an unremembered death.

For this is the sweetness that I carry each day. I shall open my storehouses and crypts and they shall be filled.

all is laid waste

all is laid waste.
not a stone stands upon another.
smokes rise from fires dark.
reeks cling to the hills about the walls' remains.

and god in a yellow sun dress, pressed and stiff,
her girlish sun-specked shoulders bared and browning,
picks sweet pimpernels to keep.
clover sweet and wild she winds into a wreath.

laughing, she drops it at the gates.

lunatics among us

there is a reason why you don't get much when looking for 'mystical' literature. that's because most of it isn't so described.

there's a reason for that, too. that's because mystic tend to get stoned, burned, etc. whenever they open their silly mouths and try to put in to words what they actually see and actually live and actually hear and actually feel, they are antichrists. so they must use allusion on top of illusion on top of hints on top of poetry. that's the only way they are entitled to live and make their way.

the only other course is quiet, persistent madness. although, perhaps that's what mystics get regardless. but there is madness and madness, as they say.

i think.