The Lighthouse: an ascension poem


amazing-lighthouse-landscape-photography-103

An amorphous sac pulsing with bile punched me

touched my body and attempted to ravage my feelings, my peace

It was anger. It was fear. Could I stand it, stand up to it, with it, not give in to a body’s wish for deliverance?

Am I a doctor for the pain of the world? Can my light engulf the suffering that a sea of victimization has washed over billions of beings?

A squirrel crushed flat into a paper cut-out. Deleted from the world by a careless driver.

The beauty of a plant unfolding into a flower called unwanted. Tearing into the velvety delicacy of a perfected structure, ripping the roots clinging to home soil and gravel.

We waver. We the lighthouses. We are here. We have been here. But no one, barely anyone can see us. Punched, billowed, slaughtered, we have bounced back. But barely.

Still we are here. Bringing sight where blindness thrives. Delivering sound, rich, melodious tones into the harsh dissonance of imbalance, greed, dominance.

A wrinkled time in which pulsing brain chants uniformity for all. We the lighthouses wonder when the sleeping, mumbling, chanting ones will awaken. We are tired and sometimes lonely. Our friends are the plants, the animals, the soil, and the water.

The humans are seething. Fear flows through them as programmed, but a few are tired of being afraid. They don’t know who is producing and directing the fear, and who is eating it and thriving from it. They don’t know, but they are tired too. I feel it.

They are tired too.

How can we, the lighthouses, help to heal humanity, dear Earth, dear animals and plants? It feels easier, so much easier to help Gaia. To send love to the water, though our bodies, minds, hearts. The water in our bodies communicates so easily to the water in the plants, the trees, the animals, the clouds. It is instantaneous.

Humans are hard to help. The programs are powerful. Their sleep so deep.

They beat us. They resist. They are full of opinions. I want to help, but I am tired. Tired of fear, of anger, of suffering, sickness, pain, conflict. My rituals of transmutation of fear into rainbows…are they helping?

The skies are healing. Clarity is coming where there were so many devious cloud impersonations. There I find and see hope.

As the demon shadows emerge from the humans, I find hope too. The darkness programmed must emerge for the healing to take place. Those shapeless bags of ugliness which have pinned us to the tarmac, never allowing us to dream of flight…

It is time. Time to release the darkness. A sea of jelly, countless globular blobs emerge from human brains, cell structures, they float filling the air with their seething thought forms. Terrorists unleashed, they hit us as we try not to flail or give in to their unreasonable demands and criticisms.

This is the question, dear lighthouses: the air is full of human suffering. It is being released, and it is hitting us full force. Can we beam for billions? Right now, can we be the light they refuse to see or embody? We are the healers. We are here at this critical time to bring forward the alchemical magic that we know helps and heals.

Possessed, they resist our help, and we cannot force the light upon them. We just continue to shine and hope that the better and best become easier to see as the blobs dissolve in our proximity.

 

 

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