It is the journey of a soul;

Struggling to be free;

To see itself

In a world in which

There is no reflection for it;

Where the death it experiences

In that world

Is the loss of its own light;

 

So accustomed it becomes to it

That it learns all too well

How to kill itself;

How to give up its reflection,

Its vision of itself.

 

But it fights and it claws its way

Through a tiny sense of self

Consciousness

Reborn with each pilgrimage

Into night and darkness;

So that it learns

To refuse to be substance,

To refuse to be stone,

To want only to breathe and

To feel itself alive

In a universe of creation

Full of life, evolving

Within the love of a creator.

 

This soul is what must win in the end

If life is to persist.

 

The world that can reflect no light

Will remain in its own darkness;

The stone that will have no part

Of consciousness

Will await its return to the life cycle;

The life cycle will welcome every soul

That seeks its reflection and its light

In the creative source and

The redemptive force

Of being.

 

I call that creative source, God.

I call that redemptive force,

The Anointed, the Christ, the Son of God.

 

And love?

Love is the Spirit

Within and around and about them;

The reflection of which

Is sought by my soul.

 

To that end, I pray;

I struggle with my inclinations

To conflict and to sin;

I learn the necessity and the value

Of the cross;

I die to my own substance and

To the substance of the world; and

I live in the spirit of love

As I find it.

 

It is our pilgrimage.

2014.02.17.0500 ©

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