The visions of the hermit turned mystic

For lack of originality, I borrow

The words of old giants, for now, I’m still too small

In Bukowski, I find how to express anger and sorrow

Hughley and Blake Show me the prophecies of scripture and God’s call

To heaven nature and people one and all

Rumi the secrets of universal truth and destiny

But the words I borrow before

Found a source more pure and free

Than my copy cat writing of heading and words

As Poe’s raven eternally calls nevermore

Or my contemporary counterparts cry of bleeding in ink

But for the most part, their creativity begs for more

Even the blood in which we write screams for the missing piece

My soul screams and the earth burns all-day

No different from Blakes wine presses and the victims of Albion’s daughter L’uvah

The soulless continually drink away the cries and screams as we turn the way

The mystics scream we are one as clear as mud from under

The feet of shaman lame from clarity

As each, his medicines fail

And the tribe of one I AM loses its famed familiarity

The dead assuming life and suffering screaming their awful wail

As the furnaces of Albion turn once more

I the heart hearing the deafening cry

Suffering to slumber restless and sore

Wishing for just once the doorway into this sphere was dry

Too many brothers unaware commanding each other

By forcing shadows as slaves to each other they mame, steal, rape, and rob

Yet openly shared by those found by few

As the cross, we bear picked up each morn

And the world of death produces yet more rot

As his child, we dutifully wake lift and wear it

Masterfully convinced we are that which we are not

Looking to each other for judgment yet we fear it

As the one and only I am continues the process

And the furnace of death maintains its horrid burning

Even still Blake’s Jerusalem plays out to be true

And my scream is not that of grace but fuck this

As falls away yet another piece of my delusions from childhood

Grabbing so tightly runs the flame against that which does remain

That my imperfections be consumed like wood

And all the false virtues I dogmatically held with my judgments slain

Only to have my current understanding fail to be loving as the flame climbs higher

And more of the me I think I am consumed as it gets hotter

That old demon of doubt turning the flame eternal into the raging fire

Turn not to the left or right

The clear instruction from both Moses and Jesus shown

Turns not to be external in the books of Samuel’s life

The animal dies to worship the senses and richness of his own

But the birthright was stolen by the supplanting one

Who took upon himself to show you the light

Renamed Isreal and the homeland done

Of the one true son David in scripture

Not having et met him I spout mere conjecture

It makes for lovely speeches

It doesn’t stop the fear of still being too impure

Today’s teachers of the law and prophecy

While taking ample time to smear the names of each other

Swearing o an external God that theirs is the way to be free

As long as in the plate or box you add your wages earned in a job

Or the equivalent of the historians ten percent

So they can line their pockets as a reward for being the voice of God

In Hebrew, It’s yod he vav he English Jehovah but it is literally just the phrase to be

So in my most recent heartbreak recalled

Noticing everything in this age must be a noun

It creates so much pain to be so rigid and galled

I’ve yet to notice I am not to be in motion when found

A verb is something much closer in sound

As Lewis Carroll’s red queen did say

“In my world, if you aren’t moving then you’re going backward”

Add in the rabbit with the late way

As his broken timepiece keeps him rushing towards

A destination he can’t tell from where he is

As poor Alice and Absolom, the caterpillar both learned and know

The audience is self poor and fact strong

As he puzzles away with the simple riddle “ who are you?”

The answer is so innocent… I am but then I am what?

Never did until almost the end were those the words the silly girl blew

And that’s also the diet of Jesus of which we know not

While more of the daughter’s of Lu’vah

Scream out my name like heavenly sirens

And I miss my mark again falling prey to lust

And my furnace is turned up to star melting heat

My head and heart feel like they will soon bust

Failing to comprehend the strange realization

The pain giving me the ultimate revelation

I’d master even this simple law if not the worry about

The women I’ve loved or fear leaving behind

And the family and brothers I might lose

Even knowing born after me are my kind

And a sister who has triggered for me as would a muse

Refusing to leave me unwilling to grow as such a perfect gift

The brothers and family I’ve given life to the experience and can open up to

I no longer try to solely lift myself up

While I navigate my place in a tribe tied thicker and richer than blood

For the first time, I have a real place to call home

By Jesse Windsor