By: Patrick Michael
I wrote a thing cause I heard a noise,
a thing that was relative to the omega, the god of war.
These gods are ancient, we must respect how they got their name,
how they found their way in the sky, and no longer reside on the earth.
I forgot a lot of my manners, of this I’m sure.
I’ve got so many ways to protect my man, that I don’t even know where to begin.
I wrote without worrying about what comes next because my soul is vocalized by the machine that stole my heart.
The man that needs a machine to breathe, the man that I can’t stop thinking about and haven’t since I met him.
I know he’s around somewhere, but once I was on a road trip via suburu; not just the tin-can opener, but the constellation itself.
I saw him in the rear view mirror, in a hell-fire of tail-light reflection, pushing on through to keep me alive.
He was using all of his mental focus, both arms out front pushing a cog in the system that was out of order due to systematic malfunction.
When it finally began to move on it’s own, he was hanging on for dear life.
His spirit became calm inside my resting mind for the remainder of my journey up north.
I kept him protected under my mind, capped off to make sure nobody else knew until we could meet another time another day.
With this intuition I expected him to come about face, when it was all right and good.
No sickle in my hand, no hound of the night to be spoken of, death itself had forgotten about me because of all the life I had preserved.
The truth of the matter is my visions are not meant to be spoken of harshly, no they must be presented eloquently that even the queen herself would shed a tear of shear beauty.
Tell no man, tell no more lies, tell me the truth of how to get his spirit back online.
It’s not broken, just saved and separated in a hidden shade.
That shade is colored maroon, the color of mars, and yes this blood moon,
that lunar landing is how one could bring him back home.
Spiritual Liberation; A Sigil
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