By Raphael O’Suna

She worries as all the mausoleum filled God-worshipers worried.

Who can live up to the God of one’s imagination?

Lost in a swamp of inner dialogue and considerations;

Rarely in her senses; dreaming ghostly beyond appropriate places;

She is bound and frightened by the passage of time and gravity’s wrinkled faces.

To be a woman in a woman’s body and not a child,

Is a wondrous thing: what a god a woman is,

Way beyond the summoning from a dreamy sky,

Where nothing outside one’s mind is looking in.

It is not easy to grasp the nature of oneself:

To accept and master the notion that each

Is a vessel capable of receiving, holding, transmuting, circulating

And distributing every force and state of consciousness within the universe.

No outside god is needed; no voice pretended in the head; no secret conversations

That imagination loves to pretend. No special chosenness. No one to impress.

One need not audition for immortality, recognition or tribute.

Self justification or the need to be understood: and all the little

Self-references and looking outside of oneself for what must be within

Delay the independence of our being.

There is an arrogance to those who hear God’s voice,

Or the greatest of mortal fears.

There is an imbecility to those who reckon God in terms not beyond

Their own little dreams.

Look at the planet. Look at the universe. Look at the majesty,

The power, violence, force, seeming disregard for single things.

Is the God of all of this sending you to hell, because you sinned your little sin?

More souls are lost in genuflection than in being joyful amidst the sorrow of earthly endeavor.

So few. So few go deeply into the nature of oneself and then take oneself back out

Into a world that has seemingly changed.

The great sin is in the image of our God:

The Immaterial Voice in the desert.

While silently glowing within ourselves

Divinity remains an unseen star.

By Raphael O’Suna

There are those who are overwhelmed by thunder:
To them, I leave only the lightning.
There are those who twinkle and are satisfied,
To them, I withhold the splendor.
There are those for whom pieces of the present,
And pieces of persons,
And parts of principles are more than enough.
To them, I remain hidden.
There are those caught up in fancy,
To whom heart is mere chemistry,
And love a matter of biology.
To them will be given minds
That slay reality and destiny.
And memories which resemble
Fantasies.
There are those for whom the future
Has no more value than past or present.
To them will all golden ages be behind.
Those who come not to me,
When Spring and Summer season their lives,
Will not be welcome in the Winter of their time.