Spiritual spasms born before dawn, an abyss bliss or universal yawn.
An awakening and enlightenment is taking place there and in the here and now.
I don’t want to blow my own trumpet, bugle or violin but with no strings attached you can strum your guitar or bang your drum to the beat on the street, as I pound the ground ready to meet my maker, shaker and baker.
But it’s funny we’ve already met, when I wore a fret with debt and without a bet, I gambol as a gazelle fearing not hell or high water.
I’ve seen both heaven and hell with an oath I swear declare yet I’m still here to ponder yonder.
You could say Judgement day is why we wait for fate on a plate or just to create as we are free to express love or hate, confounded but grounded by this endless debate.
We’re just here to do as we oughta with electric and magnetic aorta. Plasma plumes loom larger than life with or without woe for a wife.
Though the mighty magus fears not the grave, and he can conjure quite a curse. More power and portents he craves, to marry his mind with the universe.
Like being under the spell of the Sun and Moon do you ever wonder why so soon we croon or swoon intoxicated by a harmonic tune?
We’re reflections of the Truth as a Mirror with reflective perspective.
Images of the present clearly grace your face but the future is uncertain, an entirely different place from the past, fast pace in the so-called rat race.
So slow my flow though emphatic with static in the attic
because aloft and soft words can cut like laciniate, or as above love so below the shallow magnificence.
Science fact versus fiction friction can detract from the meaning of the message, but one thing is clear we’re a mere veneer, or visionary vestige as a microscopic miracle is proof for a sleuth that the truth though uncouth in youth, and since a rinse in the power of a cold shower for a flower in bloom not a harbinger of doom & gloom, there’s plenty of room to manoeuvre.
So with space in my mind and figments of imagination, every niggle and giggle a sensation for inspiration and oration whatever the nation, the language of love is poetry in motion.
May the Source be with you.