||[Mar. 10th, 2016|10:12 pm]
I see their fingernails bleeding again.|
The biting, the picking, the nerves.
Unable to cope they look for a slow way out, an uncomfortable walk, to an uncomfortable demise.
The shining yoga faces miss out, they lack virtue, in that they miss the mark.
What was the purpose better to be unhappy and miserable and to think then to drink that brave new world.
To stand with harsh eyes to a world that does not understand freedom.
That fears it's death and in doing so shuts the cutains on what little light they have.
I will stand with the bloodied the broken and unloved upon the stoa, and knowing with epictetus that a certain kind of brokenness allows a freedom unknown to the unsullied clean.
Give me the dirtied marred broken faces and minds, give me the unloved ones: A light of love upon them rest these days of mind and word.
If given gifts of nature that we should not bestow these; upon those these unloved few, who are of our blood: should we then contend that we have disregarded our countenance and grace, for we have abandoned those who are meek amongst us.
Is this the great society who regards and plays synecdochia syllabary sesquipedalia in the gallery of logos within the akasha.