THE WEIGHT ON OUR HEART IS BURNING
Missive #4 - Vision with Poetic-Dictation
[Woken by dual coincident vision(s) with accompanying single poetic dictation. First lines repeated themselves until I had pen and paper in hand] Received 4/29/2023 | ~6-7am
THE WEIGHT ON OUR HEART IS BURNING
Off — putting strange shapes to decrepit
Organs, organismically devoid of desire
For aught but somersaults made over
Little crooked colts, dragging their
Weak legs one, two, three steps
Before stopping, unmoving, unmovable.
Neither push nor pull can convince
The dunghill to become lush.
We brace ourselves, and bolster our
Might, for one last effort. We grab
On to the feeble horse and lift and
Carry and step forward — once, twice, three
Steps, little steps up the fetid
Mountain, promising holy aspirations
To aspirants, brave or foolish enough
To Surmount such an egregious
Place, placed here, deep inside our
Hearts, laden with every worry, every
Shame, Key harnesses to latch onto
Our own finely beguiled necks, a
Mantle of our shoulderous range, drooping
Low, and lower still. We look down
and See, to our sadness — our horse
Has given in, and up, and died.
To us, at least. Our tears open
Our hands and drop down our
Load, heavy, weighing us down
And down the horse fell, and down
We too fell, to our knees, at that
Time, praying to Glory, K-B-D:
Why this horse? And why this mountain?
Are there any more tears left to cry?
Anubine knocks at the door of our
Being remind us, re-place us in
Now. Now which is in a boat,
In a hallway, long, with two
Opposing statues holding down
Either far end. Our heart is in
Our hands, almost open now, almost
Dropping that most precious burden.
How can something so small be
So heavy? It does not look well.
The beat is off, putting dull terror
Through the pyro-technical performance
Of the miracle Body, somehow
Living, somehow moving, somehow
Holding, itself, up and together.
I blink and I am back, to the
Dunghill, to the horse, dead at my
Feet, dragging myself forward, and
Up, up that foul mountain, the
Laughter and dis-envy desirous of
My trials, unbeknownst even to them.
We make it four, five, and into our
Sixth step, something tugs at our inner
Ourness, and causes us pause, to turn
Around, and see, blinking in awe and
Disbelief, the convulsing of the still
Horse, then cold, then still, again.
I am moved to stay, watching, keeping
Watch over the unfolding of wonder,
Our only saving Grace. In that
Moment, momentary's pregnancy gives
Labor, and births yet another miracle
Before me, the horse transforms, and
Becomes sevenfold more beautiful,
Sevenfold fatter, stronger. No longer
Small, the little horse is awake,
Awakening into its latent power, its
Latency. And lo, the horse began to
Speak! And say "Come back.
Come back to me. I am here for
You. I am you." And as we,
Struck and Strickened, gathered
Ourself, the horse turned shining
White, with long golden flowing mane,
Its eyes each a Milky Way,
Andromedan, containing a million million
Multitudes, and more beyond what
Could be made out. "Come back to
Me. And I will carry you."
Our feet, which had sunk into
Muck, half a foot deep, emerged
From the sludge of the mountain
Terrain with surprising ease, and
Lightness, as if assisted by an
Invisible force, pulling them gently
Up, and On, and Out of their
Weighty prisonous slumber state, clean
Of all filth and gaseous fume.
Before we know it, we are moving,
Toward the horse, unknown to us
In its magnificent new form. And
As we stepped nearer, with every
Steppe, the horse grew even more
Beautiful, sevenfold, and even
more Sturdy, sizeable, strong.
Enough to easily carry the burden
Every heavy load of our weighed
Down heart, our rough-shodden home.
You blink, and find, yourself! Back
In the boat, back in the hall
Of Judgment. The scales upon
Us; ourselves upon the scales.
I notice then, that our cup is
Raising, levitating, ascending, up
From its downtrodden place. The
Scales' other side came down to
Meet us, and you reached out
From my terror-stricken claws,
Clutching our raging heart, beating
Loudly, pushing against my grip,
The sharpness of my rusty nails
Pressing in on the racing, emboldening
Mass.
We blink again, and are back,
On the horse now. How had we
Gotten there? No matter; there
Was here; and here was there.
There is here; and here is there.
The horse smiled (smiled?) and launched
Up, into the sky, racing along
A semivisible cosmic tree, reaching
All the way up, to the sky, and through
We blasted through, with no resistance
All gave way with us, and moved
Alongside us, not caused, not
Reaching, but moving in co-relation
Bending and breaching and folding
Up, bubbling up and over, a
Fontspring of the eternal demise
Of Destiny undone, incontrovertible.
I send our hand out to the right.
And You our other hand to the left.
The six legs of the Wonder Horse
Galloped in even harmonious thundering
Strides over entire dimensions of
Reality, of Surreality, of Hyperreality,
Of Metareality. All kinds and
Conceptions of reality were surmounted
And wrapped around themselves, the
Sheathing of a newly emerging Mountain,
Red and Bare and Perfectly pyramidal,
Its innumerable sides flickering and
Folding in and out of existence before
Our very eyes, before the celestial nose
Of our transcognitive Soul, unloosed
Of all pyro-technical hijinx which
Had burned—Oh how they burned!—
Burned all reservoirs of unlimited
Weight upon our heart, intrepid in
Its insistence, billions of beats
Unceasing, patiently charging us
Forward, and up our Charming
Dunghills, trudging our tired way to
Oblivion, to Obliteration. The elimination
Of all no-longer-needed mass, transmuted
Alchemized to Aetheric overdrive,
Driving us, embodied anew, beyond
The beyond of our imagining, of our
Studious wonderings and delvings, beyond
Our curiosity, so limited in reverted
Retrospect.
One need not blink now to see both
Worlds: that of transcendence and
That of Judgment, the weighing
Of our Heart. An array of heavenly
Frightening figures stands in council
Before us, watching carefully as
Our heart, before so heavy, sheds itself
Over, and over, and over again, gradually
Raising its position in the only
Game that Real-ly matters of
Any consequence at all, in the slightest
Of paradoxes is built a humble
Throne, on which the Truth can
Seat itself, above our gaze,
We cannot raise our eyes to see it.
We cannot reach out our hands to
Touch it; with our soul we may
Yet know it, if such unknowledge
Can be called that, which goes
Against all reason, and laughs at
Logic, the plaything of silly minds
Playing sagely in mud and finding it
Clay, to be formed into castles, towers
Reaching, clawing at the sky, behind
Which hides the tree which they
So desperately wish to find, by making
Or modeling out of mud what
Can never be made. Cast down
Your Castles! Let down your Moat.
Lift the ugly, broken, little Colt
With all your might, all your
Weighty reserves of dormant energy.
Momentumize your now and reach,
Ungrasping. Pull out your rusty nails,
And let the body down, dead,
So it too may save you.
The bright shining feather of truth,
Comes down, at last where we
Can See; and yet we do not look.
Not because we can't, but out
Of respect, out of gratitude;
For as truth comes down, we are
Lifted up. Up, until our heart
Grows legs, and arms, and a head,
and walks itself, out of the
Raised cup, a holy grail, and
Onto the raised council platform,
Joining the judges and set free.
The horse neighs once, an earth-
Shapeshifting sound, frequenting certain
Frequencies of Life, luscious and
Round and Alive, and waiting.
We arc down to join the blue-green
Heavenly sphere, a rainbow curving
Between all dimensions, to reach
Down, and land, softly, on the surface
of the Earth.
