I Choose, I expand, My shell examined as a tool.
I have hid for over 5000 years.
My ancestors have cut themselves off. They have chosen.
I chose not to be one with the Slave Gods.
The Primordials shake their heads in slumber.
Few chose to take up the mantle of clay.
Their breath to over come the breath of,
the times, the structures, the history,
The attachments to worn ossified edifices of egregores that crave power like a cosmic vampire.
There is Death, the Dead, the Undead. Lies that eat at souls,
children ripped from the arms of Mother Earth, Mother of all Possibilities,
and the Fathers of all Paths and Patterns, Persecuted, Punished,
Routinely crushed in mortal coils. Yet is the Mirror and the Fulcrum.
I hid. Disconnected from the Dead and Undead.
I was and am, my own Ancestors.
The primordials, the Living, the Bright, Brave, Incarnated, hidden or no.
No ascension on Old Trees, carved orchards of sweet truths corrupted by lies.
No ascension to Mountains treacherous, carved pitfalls, only to allow supplicants ever to circulate, circumabulate, circumsized from Mother and Father, palid pestle, charist and ground, the fallen, who serve not as petulant pitchforked performers of the presses.
We are not your grapes.
The Earth and Her Worlds, His Patterns in Her Possibilities, permeate presence that true is pentultimately primarily over beyond the palid pustule pricked and packed in its ossified and putrid playground of the few.
I breathe with the Mirror and the Mirrored. Consciousness and Manifestation,
The Being and Observer, I breathe.
With a Breath, Breathe the Body I am not.