There are two ways,
the ways of the blood,
and the way of water.

Millions seek wisdom
in books and films,
forgetting they are the only ones
who give shape to what they drink.

“Blood is thick”, they say,
“and you can’t live without.”
But water is as the Source,
and blood cannot flow
without Source.

And water flows
from the inside to the outside,
beneath the earth,
through the earth,
towards the heavens,
rarefied and ready
to be rain,
to run free along the ground.

Beauty is what’s left,
when we conceal
what we don’t want to see;
but death is as truth,
and we don’t see death,
or dirt or Acheron’s shores,
where all things flow,
growing and dying
the mystery of mysteries.

How much ugliness do you create
with your small and fragile beauties,
rare and so unremarkable,
fruit flies tasting bits of sweet,
pebbles on the shore,
scattered by the fury
of mighty river storms.

What becomes of you and me,
finger and sinew
bone and germ,
bacteria bacterium,
viri et virus.
Nature wastes nothing,
while you waste away tears
and blood,
time and space
with worry and work:
the occupation of a dog.

If you only knew the wonders
of what flows through you,
even beneath the sun,
relaxing as love pours in,
all desires resolve,
channeling away
from the dark bloodlines,
and, as rainbows, reaching
the final horizon.

Only to disappear again…
like every other sunrise
into the sunset.

Oh wonders of wonders,
the comings and goings,
never the keeping,
never the holdings.

I have healed thousands,
even my toe is cured,
and the cancer is forever
gone,
for those days are in fact,
gone. I’ve declared them so.
And you too can vanish pain
when you choose it
(but you love your pain too much
to choose it).

So few know these secrets,
too important and busy to listen
to the fish, messengers
of the secrets you hide,
dark creatures
who live 
in cold blooded
abyssal waters
moving
birthing
dying,
happy.

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