The Mystical Mirage of Looking Inside

Traveling inward I discover the tempest for a night of one-thousand nights strewn in a darkness so deep I no longer see, for I have become blind by the madness of the humanity factor. Can it be so a light shines within the shadows of a demononic plague? Or, is it just within this landscape of the bones left behind from my traumatized soul?

To whom may I pray for a tranquil reprieve exonerating me from this sudden death? I turn then by the will of Heaven to the Mother of exculpation, “O Clement! O Loving! O Sweet Mother thus crowned in Heaven, pray thus, now to save me!

Your earthly visit has begun a new incarnational transformation within this mystery for a golden glow that surrounds you as aura. You have instructed me as I die a thousand deaths upon this landscape for the inkwells of the poetics that has begun to do its work to listen. Forty-three centuries of a wise-woman way may bear witness to this mystical mirage of looking inside. I do, and have come upon treasures of not bone and ash, but of the flesh within my once stoney heart. I have been reprieved as I mature in a spirit-filled journey save yet, yes, from a woman’s soul, transparent rainwaters over which so much wasteland punishment lay.

I lay adjourned, seeking only the reward you have bequeathed me. Now, justice fulfilled within a transformed heart, I see the ancient cliched light for my redemption that walks now through a field of revitalized grain of graces, the truest measure of a man who once walked the tarry pits of a hell so deep, the only angel to save me was in fact, the Mother of all Angels.

O Clement. O Loving. O Sweet Mother of God.

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