To hell, then, with my troubles and woe, neither of which would exist if and when life is taken as a whole. The woman i see is a reflection of me, and my relationship with the divine. If i represent this woman, the divine, then, would represent me, at one with the universe. And yet I engage the role that i play, sampling His experience, the better, I say, to be useful, and, naturally, to entertain.
Choose wisely, my petite, for i might call
upon you at any time—thinking, only,
of two points on a line, that, for all
intents and purposes, cross at infinity,
and, as such, can expect to be shriven,
if, for example, some imperfection remains.
what’s essential is the time we’re given,
His resonance, then, is what sustains
the joy that brings us closer to God.
Each day I communicate with the bulk,
which, in it’s own right, would be flawed,
if, separated from us, we should sulk,
giving in to notions of boredom—
the tell-tale sign of a misbegotten heart,
a consequence of mortal delirium.
Too much, I suppose, of this phantom part,
exposed to what He, for me, might’ve felt
if He wasn’t at one with the universe.
I feel alive, don’t I, with each step I take, knowing that, at various points ahead, the wool will be pulled from my eyes, and i’ll rejoice as the object of His love? In this various construction that I make, am i not housed according to my fate, the product of my beliefs? Tell me, then, are my beliefs not shaped by truths that align with scientific discovery? And, I ask, am i not made whole, when, in the absence of adequate science, I go seeking revelations of my own?