Eschatological Regression

Right on the trellis of the house made of reeds, she hears the steps of the time. The woman feels the seeds of grievance growing in the immortality of her soul to bleed. She kneels in the booming green like a screamin' child. The sun looks so wild in that phenomenal realm. As floods o' faith are the clouds that breeze to catch the angels' wings. The man thinks he is a believer of the rise. He ingests the existence of God as he ingests His words, nor does he feel their sweetness. The woman is dressed in that honest submissiveness ripped by the freedom of her will. A few colored bumble bees touch the sunflowers' lips. A pulsing core has the full bloom of the sun to spread its seeds. Drops of a new divine love are falling down over all souls. In the eye of the man, there is nothing of her nudity, which is not typical of a mother. She dances this love while tryin' not to break the inner things. Their thoughts are like the quartz crystal inside an orgonite pyramid to awaken them. The naked hands of the destiny become their boat. The man paddles in the sea of life beyond the bounds of sense, while forcing himself to see the fundamental distinction between sensibility and understanding. The sky is like a convex mirror or a concave lens to diverge the light. The yellow of the sun does not heat the screamin' and growing green. There is a human reification needing an eschatological regression. Poem by Marieta Maglas