Inclination
It’s like a tilt in a specific direction that beckons to me to see deeply; it hinges on a primal thirst for Darkness
This feeds the eyes like fluid that ensues clarity; I then can ride The Darkness like a chariot in conquest
Cloaked in it...flowing as it; unbridled in a thick propensity of effect and yet, I surface and am drawn to this
Remnant like a swatch, faded still, like an old rug in an old house in an old time; I want to tear it up but....
It’s not mine; it was at some time but, no longer yet, I want to show where it is torn and frayed; coming apart
From the very start; unraveling like a poorly written plot with so many holes that I forgot to start to mark them
Dizzying in the inconsistencies hinged on falsified treatments of untruths; dots that can never be connected
For there are no points of origin for the flagrant testaments of man and his ideological dream work
Would I be just to say “Hey, these books; ancient graphic novels are comics and relief of the times grown old?”
Would that be too bold? “And these stone monoliths on stolen ground wherein lies are found are unsound”
How would that sound? Just because it was made doesn’t make it real; when souls you steal away to prey on
And how fear was spawn about the very dawn of existence: The Darkness; I have been inclined to correct this
It rises through my eyes as I realize the millions of horrors placed upon land and man because of delusional Tales that left trails of death unanswered and truth unrequited to this day they play with guns in hand in fields of
The Sands of time; blind in their faith, blind to the industrial-religious game being played with toy soldiers
That bleed with no heed taken for human life; like pawns playing out an age old game of chess by kings
If I’d be that still small voice in the wilderness I would awaken those with bloodlust democratic cause
And psychotic religious laws and simply say stop and drop the guns, look what your war has done
Yet, my inclination is not set on purpose or cause nor has it anything to do with wars or laws
I am driven towards the apparent; that which is feared or ignored, I explore, and open the doors to freedom
And make seen that which we have been convinced that we shouldn’t see; the apparent unseen beckons to me
And all shall be revealed as I speak freely; to this, it can be ripped away, for slightly under the surface
It decays, everything that the doctrines say; it now flakes away and rhetoric of coming days to promote craze
2012 is a beveled attempt to circumvent the inevitable shifting paradigm; to create a rift in this gift
Of awareness as the wool is pulled over the eyes of mankind; the truth lies, it clouds the mind, makes it blind
To see reality because of the distracting refracting stories that fill the air with fear and light creating shadows
Everywhere; love and light to make you feel alright when you are not; some light work is not work at all
It is fluff, around inane stuff, creating spiritual powder puffs; people running off to die in the light
That someone else shines. I’ve delved into the Darkness of self and found Nothing Else that matters
As the mirrors of false selves shatter in the illusionary ride of false pride and footprints by your side
Wake up; it’s all made up; feeding you false hope so that you can cope, as bad as alcohol and dope!
Damn it, it is all inside; it is you and what you are inclined to do and not a thing that they have shown to you
If you take it all away; anything that you have heard them say, what is left? For me it was Nothing...
Maybe for you it is something else; for me it was the Darkness of/in my depth. When you dig what do you get?
What are you inclined to; what is coursing through you? What are you neglecting to do? What is deep within?
Where are you truly going? And are you being mislead without you even knowing? The trick is not to turn
Until you learn to listen from within to what you are truly saying; I speak not of the voices in your head
But, the Silent Whisper instead, by which your inclination is led from its primal depth to be integrated yet
To be the artist that paints clearly the things that we thought we didn’t see...and s/he so effortlessly make seen
The calligrapher with the unseen stroke like the samurai with closed eyes; where discipline strives and time
Subsides so that the strides of the warrior are clear and complete to a place where no one else can compete
This-there-then is where inclination begins and the artist/warrior never ends the path to personal excellence
And the relevance of inexplicable depth realized through the eyes of projected pristine expression therein
It’s like a tilt in a specific direction that beckons to me to see deeply; it hinges on a primal thirst for Darkness
This feeds the eyes like fluid that ensues clarity; I then can ride The Darkness like a chariot in conquest
Cloaked in it...flowing as it; unbridled in a thick propensity of effect and yet, I surface and am drawn to this
Remnant like a swatch, faded still, like an old rug in an old house in an old time; I want to tear it up but....
It’s not mine; it was at some time but, no longer yet, I want to show where it is torn and frayed; coming apart
From the very start; unraveling like a poorly written plot with so many holes that I forgot to start to mark them
Dizzying in the inconsistencies hinged on falsified treatments of untruths; dots that can never be connected
For there are no points of origin for the flagrant testaments of man and his ideological dream work
Would I be just to say “Hey, these books; ancient graphic novels are comics and relief of the times grown old?”
Would that be too bold? “And these stone monoliths on stolen ground wherein lies are found are unsound”
How would that sound? Just because it was made doesn’t make it real; when souls you steal away to prey on
And how fear was spawn about the very dawn of existence: The Darkness; I have been inclined to correct this
It rises through my eyes as I realize the millions of horrors placed upon land and man because of delusional Tales that left trails of death unanswered and truth unrequited to this day they play with guns in hand in fields of
The Sands of time; blind in their faith, blind to the industrial-religious game being played with toy soldiers
That bleed with no heed taken for human life; like pawns playing out an age old game of chess by kings
If I’d be that still small voice in the wilderness I would awaken those with bloodlust democratic cause
And psychotic religious laws and simply say stop and drop the guns, look what your war has done
Yet, my inclination is not set on purpose or cause nor has it anything to do with wars or laws
I am driven towards the apparent; that which is feared or ignored, I explore, and open the doors to freedom
And make seen that which we have been convinced that we shouldn’t see; the apparent unseen beckons to me
And all shall be revealed as I speak freely; to this, it can be ripped away, for slightly under the surface
It decays, everything that the doctrines say; it now flakes away and rhetoric of coming days to promote craze
2012 is a beveled attempt to circumvent the inevitable shifting paradigm; to create a rift in this gift
Of awareness as the wool is pulled over the eyes of mankind; the truth lies, it clouds the mind, makes it blind
To see reality because of the distracting refracting stories that fill the air with fear and light creating shadows
Everywhere; love and light to make you feel alright when you are not; some light work is not work at all
It is fluff, around inane stuff, creating spiritual powder puffs; people running off to die in the light
That someone else shines. I’ve delved into the Darkness of self and found Nothing Else that matters
As the mirrors of false selves shatter in the illusionary ride of false pride and footprints by your side
Wake up; it’s all made up; feeding you false hope so that you can cope, as bad as alcohol and dope!
Damn it, it is all inside; it is you and what you are inclined to do and not a thing that they have shown to you
If you take it all away; anything that you have heard them say, what is left? For me it was Nothing...
Maybe for you it is something else; for me it was the Darkness of/in my depth. When you dig what do you get?
What are you inclined to; what is coursing through you? What are you neglecting to do? What is deep within?
Where are you truly going? And are you being mislead without you even knowing? The trick is not to turn
Until you learn to listen from within to what you are truly saying; I speak not of the voices in your head
But, the Silent Whisper instead, by which your inclination is led from its primal depth to be integrated yet
To be the artist that paints clearly the things that we thought we didn’t see...and s/he so effortlessly make seen
The calligrapher with the unseen stroke like the samurai with closed eyes; where discipline strives and time
Subsides so that the strides of the warrior are clear and complete to a place where no one else can compete
This-there-then is where inclination begins and the artist/warrior never ends the path to personal excellence
And the relevance of inexplicable depth realized through the eyes of projected pristine expression therein
