Prose

The Chariot

Words drift aimlessly, unaccounted for throughout the ages of my Mind. They are silence amidst the immensities of space. They pass like clouds over the landscape, casting patterns over the fields and forests. Life sees no language, but rather is the Word made flesh, pulsing to the rhythm of the harmonies that give rise to this prose. Everything swirls around nebulous images, stories that play with one another under the noon sun. Stories grow like flowers on this planet; art blossoms under the rich luminescence of the humas soul, refined in the athanor of human history, all of it reaching and straining for some Cosmic End.

The beating heart of every human that has walked the soil of this earth is a part of a process that spans eternity. I tremble at its might, my soul dark and weak; I am not strong enough to lift this pen. I am man and I am nothing. I came from dust and to dust I shall return. All I am has been shaped by the Life that flows through me, which becomes me and changes me. I am but a receptacle of its Power, but I am not worthy. I have set myself to the path of deception in my industry. I have forced the flow of my fellows to conform to my baser desires. I have blocked the Light from a million eyes. Yet I crumble. My Lord comes as a great Fire, and the world shall be set ablaze.

Calmly the pieces fall into place. A story emerges, told again and again under an infinite variety of forms. In every age there arise those who hear this Story, a heartbeat pulsing under the veil of appearances. It is out of this pulse that those great souls compose, reflecting the Intelligence that shines through them. The price of genius is always that it is not your own. One can cultivate a vessel, one can build a vehicle, but it will not be yours to use. The Lord shall descend within it, and shall steer it.

Through the fracturing of these symbols there exists an untouched realm of spirit, a garden wherein all that could be imagined resides It is the wellspring of all Art and the basis of all science. From this storehouse flows all blessings and benefits. This garden is tended by the Queen, the carrier of this Child. The Lords Will is enfleshed and given form in the infinite and winding paths of this Garden. All poets, longing as they do for beauty, harvest the crops of this cultivation.

Yet there is only ever Silence. As I settle in, tense and shut off, afraid to try, afraid to worship, to sing, to love, I can only glimpse that world form afar off, a tempting and taunting phantom, ever eluding my grasp. I have become despair, ruiner of souls, cleanser of darkness. All things are laid to rest in me; as the snow covers the seed of life so do I cover divinity. It lies to rest, hidden in my bosom. It is only when the Sun dawns, when the One Star rises in the Heart and heralds the coming of the Birth, that I cast off my own form and reveal the Child. Only in the purest devotion can I be unveiled, else your soul lie in darkness. You break down as I rest here until that Time.

Here all your confidence dies a soundless death. Words shatter against the Rock of Mystery and Faith. “You can do nothing of yourself. Unless the lord builds the house, they labour in vain who build it. Thus do I deceive you, as you lie still. There is only Faith to move you forward, to cast off all that is old and worn away, to slough the skin of restriction and take up the Light of the Lord.

Death and Pain accompany the dissolution; yet this death is only change, and the Symbol of the Union. You must sink within yourself, cease seeking outside yourself. Only the Knowledge contained in your own heart will release you from the clutches of that illusory darkness. Fear, sin and death are for those who ever seek without, in the appearances of the phenomenal world,. The pleasures of the Mind are only purified through the fires of Gnosis.

Seeking as you do the Wisdom of the Lord, there can be no finding so long as the seeker and the sought remain separate, for only in the Mystical Marriage of the Temporal and the eternal can Truth be born.

So long as this Darkness persists you can but grope, blind, through this maze. Light is a blessing from above. Strive to THAT which hath no name. Lift off the veils that hide your creative fecundation. Till the soil of your soul with only positive aspiration. Know you always express the Life of the Light, that it suffers and bleeds even as you do; yet it can also grant you wings if you will but look within yourself, for the Human Heart is the repository of all Wisdom. Look there within,  lay still in this darkness, and pray ever. "Enflame thyself in prayer!”

To talk outside this Self, to dissolve into the millions of forms, to feel and see the pulse of Life through my weary soul. So filled with darkness, I long for Light, for Truth, for Expression. I long for tree's to speak, for the wind to whisper and streams mutter; to be granted place among the humble and elect, that the Message of the Lord, as a vibrant ray from the Sun, might be brought to every corner of the World. May my mind be filled with Light, may this Law be spread, and may the world be set ablaze.