Principles of Alignment
Hailing from Parallel Universe Number 9, rooted to Earth, for the sake of all who serve the Four parts of Source, I’ve become my own personal shaman, my own jester, my fool.
Gazing skyward, startled by the stars, hell-bent to clean old veins of the fatty scraps; After eleven hundred lives on this planet I've come to tug at the lint of sleep thieves, to dance the new sacrifice in this, my body, a labyrinth.
Drumming the hangèd man’s dance, I twist my limbs into a corporeal question. I'll burn denial in the crucible of love. My whisper, one verb, rises like this slate-grey smoke, ascending spire-wise, filling the church of my own voice in answer.
I have the intention to find my lost will, to remember everything, to align with Source.
Here: this one verb, I offer, in my speechless fashion.