MASSACRE OF INNOCENCE II
A terrible existence, up until now, my self has lived. Such a cold place, chilling to the core and even more. It massacred the innocence.
Not a tale of the Massacre of Innocence, no. This is a different tale, that of its recovery and restoration.
Though born freely, it is not unto freedom born. In the days of infancy and youth, the days to be of life, were inevitably designed and decreed to be. It was into cold cells and watery floors that the soft warm body was laid.
All around, full grown statues stood in mired merry. They looked down, as they do a body inlaid a coffin. And as they lowered the coffin into its grave, the banshees wailed as ululations rose among the statues.
The Massacre had just begun and the joy was of the new soft warmth about to be turned into stone. It was to the Massacre that they attended to …
Many years have passed. Many chilling tales to be told, of long days when the statues were gone and even longer days of the impassive stares from the cold statues. They were never moved, not by the joys or the mourns from this soft warmth.
Statues, it appears, are created from years of no care.
Another cold statue was the soft warmth expected to become. Not so. Deep within the soft warmth, lay fires hot and melting, awaiting days when the soft warmth would seek home.
These cold places, damp places, indifferent spaces and impassive stances, these were not my place. My origins burned hot and live still, deep deep within was hid the gem of life.
As they taught math, they taught the art of blindness. As biology was spoken, so the parasites of self-importance. With history, came self-preservation. In all these that were taught to Self, an echo was heard in the back ground that to survive another had to fall…
That was just the ways, they said, the ways. And so, they made sure it was. And hid me from the sun, the Self and other soft warmths being initiated into cold impassive statues living in cold damp places that dampened the spirit and massacred the soul.
They took us from the warmth of Mother’s womb and unto cold damp floors were we laid.
And from these cold floors, into freezing cells, that we never witness the never ending warmth of the Sun or the peace of bare feet on the abundant Terra and most definitely not the freedom of seamless Skies that go on and on and on and on … flew birds unhindered.
The Waters and the Skies and the Earth poisoned
…Purifying Fires that would not be perverted.
The Fires, Purifying Fires, these Oxidizing Fires within begun to burn …seeking their Source.
Woke …woke…Woke Awakened into Innocence.
And the Call continued to ring, calling the Light Workers and Way Showers back home, back to their Truth.
Reviving. Restoring. Reminding… this place is not my place, is not our place, we must rest not until we get into the Land of Promise.
