borrowed

your STORY
buried,
under the debris
of the self righteous delusion of dharmic illusion.

 

 

your MAGIC
hidden,
away
behind the
cashmere curtains
of holy tricksters:
self-proclaimed sages.

 

your LIGHT,
dimmed,
by a fear to BE
greater.

 
your VOICE,
muted
by parroted aphorisms.

 

 

 

YOU,
wonderful YOU,
just a wisp
of the
Beauty  contained within.

you need not be limited.
and diminished
by their stolen jargon.

 

you CAN let go these borrowed
pretensions,

and

Love

you,

and the

star’s fire that you are.

come
dance and play within the flame;

Burn this mutha’ down,

and then,
let’s fly
as we wild things do.

closer

calling faintly
from the ether,
her enticingly familiar
figure
beckons
and
instills
fear.

the brink of consummation
is the precipice from which we
tumble,
together at first
and then,
rudely,
roughly,
rapidly,
we fall away from
ourselves
and the each other
into shells of distraction and,
(perceived truths?)