Alive in a Time of Dying

The days meld into nights into days of unrest to rest, my voice. I'm guessing the full moon rising, she may speak on my behalf.

SisterMoonChild shall bat her eyelashes spiderlike to each constellation as they sparkle and dim upon the backdrop of this grand stage.

This place we call Earth, it is a Hell birthing breathing dragons of denial and greed and in between, beauty. The blooming of new life.

The irony that existence is dependent upon black vs. white, good vs. evil, night vs. day, man vs. woman, sun vs. moon, and you vs. me.

Where are the ones standing and speaking for us all, we're outnumbered. Where is the golden chalice, my cup of poison, the holy altar?

I shall gladly drink my share to elevate me from a state of betrayal. Hand me a crudely chiseled cup made only by the hand of man.

Bring it to my lips, love. My eyes shall close, breathing cease, yet my spirit shall soar as pure divine energy.

Oh, what silly creatures to dream a dream upon dreams that may or may not exist according to each of our own waking states.

I shall attempt to reach a state of being and non being, of living while dying alive, of pure esoteric flight, of thinking without thought.

How grand it is to be alive in a time of dying. 

The fresh buds shall bloom when the frost sleeps during Springtimes coming of age. And Summer shall welcome Fall, prepare her for Winter. 

Drink, friends, this cup of mine is yours. 

It is sweet, oh.

Yet it is bitter.

© Susan Marie 2012