By Pencil and by Sword

Sacred spaces
grow from within the heart,
the heart of God, of You,
sky rise or blade of grass,
firm in the soil
holding to the winds:
these are the creations.

Even the birds hold to earth
and fly over the ground.
by a great light
from Sun and Eye
that speaks its presence
in its foundation,
in its decoration
and adornments:
God is singing who you are
through the works of hands;
and imagination of mind.

But flames who flicker,
fear climate and storms,
the great waters and heavy earth,
especially the light,
in which small fires can’t shine,
the one that abides in all,
deep within your heart.

The way isn’t Jesus,
shadow and story,
a book of mistranslated tales,
a children’s tomb
told by the dead, lovers of pain
those loving only
to wait for love;
and their eyes long,
for white horsemen,
with flowing locks 
and the kisses of a troubadour,
black in soul.

No, the way is through
the pain and the heartache:
the challenge is the fears to overcome,
the bad dreams,
the murderers and the betrayers,
the ones who prompt you,
goad you, guide you to seek
the hammer that you hold,
the destroyer and the builder,
the power that is Self to wield
and Self to absorb
by the pencil and by sword,


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