On the seventh day, we should have rested, cradled in the seventh realm of our heart, the choir of all souls we should have heard, we should have lived the bliss of breathing light. Bewildered by a myriad of stars, our eyes have drowned into their milky shine; their fast pulsating orbs, our heart pulled
If perfect triads twist our mind, reality is waltzing (on earth as it is in heaven) while one plus two plus three is always six, a double three (the rhythm of our steps) in perfect harmony with our spirits (unfolding symphonies of senseless sounds) filling the gaps between the words (a seamless canvas paints).
‘Why’s five the human number? Please, teach me well!’ A flash of light blinked through the unknown colour of his eyes. The wise man spoke: ‘It’s just a half- the half of ten, a half of man. The rest is grace.’ ‘Up to the ten?’ The wise man closed his eyes and silent he remained.
And here we are, between the half moon and the setting sun, between the leafless limbs of winter, between the purple of the lake and blue cold sky, between the histories, between the times- the walls of screens, the squares of our lives, enchanted by the fear, entrapped in perfect form while dreaming of our
I say we dive you say we’d die a thousand times through roots of trees reborn again, again, again I say you failed the three- a flash nocturnal, a sign of life. You say I failed to see the power of the one. January, 3rd, 2020 Featured image from Pixabay – Kellepics