It is not a dream that wakes a man from his slumber as the wind howls down the chimney and the windows flex under the furious ethereal hands of nature.
It is the voice of the past, speaking down through the ages, repeating its message until those with a mind set free of convention can feel the meaning as it courses with every turn of the great worm.
Holy is not the man who restricts his thoughts and condemns others in a doctrinal prison, where right and wrong are measured equally in the blood of the heretic. But it is through the oneness of mankind as it bathes us all in its soft purple light and embodies the dreams of childhood, sitting on the swings and roundabouts of outrageous fortune, that holiness shines mirror ball golden.
Bless-ed is he who has the presence of mind to ask himself why.
Dammed be the Jackal who uses his conditioned response to add weight to his righteousness
Cherubim and Seraphim are as road kill on the highway of life, as the message of our heart lies incarcerated within a ribcage of doctrine waiting for a surgeon to release the flesh-bound pressure.
Self Medicate, Self medicate, know thine own mind. The twin pillars of order shall crumble into the sea when you are truly free from the shackles of pretence.
