Tales From The Morph

Oh, the roads we take on…They bend and they curve, for some they are straight.

Sometimes we may envy that, but we don’t seem to be on that page.

With eyes still straying to the horizon, painfully, joyfully, aware that this incarnate adventure will have its final destination… if not in this life then the next.

Collecting experiences like carefully handcrafted bricks of clay we build and build, some frantically, some in tranquility, and like Tibetan monks making madalas – we tear it down again – striving for the perfection of the soul, seeing our final vision gathering on the horizon with the promise of the Sun sending us gentle good morning greetings.

A flake in a snowstorm this life is, and yet this life is the magnitude of the storm. Wild is the wind… Do we need to separate ourselves further from our own greatness? So eagerly they tell us we are reduced to a grain in a cereal box, for their greasy stinking teeth to bite in.

Looks hopeless, even arrogant, believing that we can beat them, but we can we know, we have before. That is why we traveled all this way from the celestial spheres to find ourselves in the midst of an ongoing battle once again.

In ancient of times we took the swords that were handed us and chopped their heads off, smelling their blood and holding the decapitated head in our hands, raising it as a sign of the conqueror. Bloodthirsty we were, mad men and mad women roaming the streets of ancient babylonian strongholds.

Bloody we went. Fighting in Scottish villages, defending Indian huts and teepees where they cut our women down, we spew poisonous arrows at them conquering the Amazon. Brothers and sisters in arms, our weapons of choice have become more and more subtle.

Now it’s words we fight with, and the divine power of ‘talking the talk and taking the walk’. Don’t say that you love us, that’s what you say…..Come walk with…

Lost souls want friends, rambunctious souls want the deep personal relations that are tied in golden fabrics through the polishing of ego desires swirling through time and space, with a cruel but just master called Synchronicity as the leading light. Trust me, it whispers… it can be an illusive mistress.

Now we find us, across continents, recognizing souls left behind and buried beneath a wooden cross, on the battlefield times ago. Our bones still decay there…We renew them in a scent close to nectar, cross race, cross gender, cross age. Love is love – and that is the most delicate of weapons. Respect follows it, and the will to let it all go while the fascist fog rolls in from the seas and gathers to block out Brother Sun.

Still we stir and try for the light. They cannot stand it its way. Choice is to be made now. Will we once again clear the way for it or will we stare like blinded sheep called to the slaughterhouse: the cruel altar of the 12 horrors that rule this world from their hiding places, the subterraneans, libertines and ghoulish creeps that took their chance and snuck out of hell.

Horsemen are gathering at the gates, we know how it will end – to begin again – the promise of stillness … we have endured more than ever and we know we will rise above them. We already have. The house of cards will fall. It does so, even when a gentle breeze hits it.

Rest assured… it is eternal fighting no more… it is now.

We will once again sit by the fire, sharing tales of the ‘enlighten dark age’, see, the Dark Age was somehow easy to grasp, since it was singular darkness with few minds awake.

Its the most blatant concept of deceit in any way to describe this moment in time as ‘enlightenment’. The fog is still to thick…..Educated, very few – if we count the souls walking the planet. Knowledge and knowing, is a very different thing and the numbers in the equation significantly rise above any of times….

Let that knowledge merge with the wildness in the wind and their hooves will hold ground no more.

© Soren Dreier –  Full repost only with permission

June 2017
« May