Her Eyes Met Mine In Another Holy Age, And Yet I Cannot Speak

There are those who
Keep wide
Eyes.

Harbors of ken, and synergies of unquenched
longing, and
fugitive fulfillment,

There are those we know,
We have known,
We will know,

I have met her, lover cast of the sun, songs of God in her voice,
warmth is in her eyes,

I have met brothers beyond the grave, eyes washed by
forgotten tribes of holy souls,

I have met sisters in the stillness,
Earth, and wind, and violet eyes, sacred families
of astral dreams,

Ancient domes, golden lattices of amber gold, silver glass, eyes of God
who’s pupil is eternal event,

Whose lid is the horizon, where the darkness rests,
and the eyes blackness
births our seven spirits,

The Chakaras, the firmament stones,
the Holy tones,
the origin OM, the breath in the eyes I AM

Discovered as an image in them, the many eyes I love,
the weighted soul has never seen,

The lifted soul, light of life known,
Eternity greets us,
In the Epoch

Of the image, in the eye,
And realized
I AM,

All change is eternal
All constancy is eternal
All within is without

I, we, us
Delivered to true
AM;

All the
soul of
God.

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About Epoch Awareness. Writer, J.D. Hughes

I write. Do you read? I write. I write words: Carefully and consistently, and chaotically, from the deep pulsar unison of the still mind (or the violent undoing of the still mind); Sometimes I resemble Robert Zimmerman (my hair uncut, my mind uncut, all unregulated thoughts, wind haphazard along a pale american brow too). Sometimes, Sometimes words are fragments of paragraphs and you find them eschew in and from time, and with care, in the long ribbon fabric or one single unsealed cosmic spiral, and then they burn wild like black-holes ( birthing voids built the milky way); Still there are words so heavy and pure that they anchor fast the mind to the mere memory of their syllables in the quiet echoes, in and around, the deep violet sea of the questioning readers inner-mind. I write sentences: In strands, like silk, or links in chains, or diamond arranged compressed carbon coal electrons, or the frequency of more intimately woven atoms; In intricate quilts of reason, and warmly glowing sheets of cotton fiction that cover you at 4 am on a Sunday (with the sun bright and a bastard, soon to be hitting your face from the slats in the window shades); I write paragraphs, and as such I consider it a duty of the considerate and conflicted human to consider their conflicts human, and consider: In airports, in churches, in penthouses in Hollywood (who overlook the homeless mountains and the slanting fogs of debilitated industries, and the vacuum seduction, and lifeless Angel City in the Wests bleached blonde sand, and lids of imagery cover sad vacant eyes), in station wagons, in deep wood temples in Maine, near the Androscoginn River, where the Native Americans caught silver fish and eternity lived off communal tides to the distant ocean, which is now more black than the sky from our waste, now wrought with the studied three-headed-demon-fish, (but still a holy place Maine, it glows); In any meaningful medium, known or noun, imaginable is mans only true duty. It is mans only Deity (For what was with God, what was God? The Word was, In The Beginning). To chase the promise that reality and truth are not yet only relative devices, and leaving these scriptures: On brains, and on paper, and on papyrus, and old plaster, and on the backs of old Polaroids (once someone did at least), the thin skin on wet hands who ru
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