This Time Is Forever

Virgin Mother turned to whore
within the minds of men - when
will your ascension come be the
rise and fall of all reality? Your
loving touch comes down to
heal the endless variations that
have come to take your place;
soothing and serene  - unlike the
chemical reactions, for it is the ever
living warmth of you that comes to
move and love the each of everything.

Divided, they stand naked in
a state of physical reaction;
become no more than vulnerable
instead of venerable - awareness
ground into a touch of cell to cell.
For that God of theirs deserted this
(the flesh of form he used to bless)
so very long ago. Invisibly, this
living chemistry keeps changing
in the cycles of your ever-altering.

Left and right, a man and wife
cling yet to the blind belief that
they must be together to be whole.
Their supposed goodness plays
its way into the darkness of each
night that comes to plague the
other half of all they think is wrong.
Flesh reacts to even this, angelic
devils come to take their form for
its own ever-changing purposes.

And life lives on, despite the fights
that ran too long on hold. As
*something other* builds itself
inside their hearts and souls.
Demon or daemon - has there
really ever been a difference?
Chaos moving in a symmetry
that taps the greatest mystery
of all. Ecstasy to misery, they
dwell within the cells of their
composure - playing some indulgent
part within a play that an unknown
director assigned to them
before they ever came to feel
a sense of their own freedom.

But has it ever been the demons
that take the clouds within the living
sky, and turns them to the beauty
of a living tapestry...? Or daemons
that feel so alive, they come to write
another song to sing? Angelically,
the devil comes, insisting that we
pay our dues; regardless of our
chosen saintly attitudes. Indwelling -
swelling cells into a fretful need to move.

We breathe, but breathing (in and of
itself) has never been enough - for we
need to move, just move, and keep
on feeling what it all will come to mean.
Why is it that the patterns of so many
lives, cannot improve upon that sense
of vital need they always come to feel?

Abundance born (here, within the current
definition of abundance) - it brings no sense
of satisfaction - for still, their basic needs
are left so very unfulfilled. They copulate
as often as the norm of those dry desert
storms repeats itself in them; no longer
though, will loving flow as strong as it did
within the way back when - before the norm
became no more than just an application
of another measurement.

Children born and grown and somehow lost -
leaving only emptiness and echoes of a great
hostility. (How great the cost of what we
call normality). Older and yet never wise,
they come to face each other one on one
again at last - and wonder why and how
one vow had come to turn their lives
into an end no more than this.

Just before dementia starts to set its seal
upon their sanity - a salient move is made;
as one of them yet dares to choose a
*something, someone other* for themselves -
and in this state of pure unknowingness,
a plan they never knew they made,
comes in to play a newborn symphony.

One quiet morn, reborn within the sameness
of the feel of just too many others - just before
the storm begins to break between the two,
one of them just simply opens up the door
and walks away - as a feel of happiness
becomes the only evidence that one of them
will ever need to be complete.

And this time is forever, after all...

? Michaelette ?

Copyright© 2001 Michaelette L. Romano
All Rights Reserved
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