Divine Grace

What is a moment anyway? If you have one, read on, share one of mine, only a moment of a day-mare mind you, the years of it are getting both short and much too long... like a pin prick...

Divine Grace

Unable to escape the toxic effects of the venom Death lay prone. His body draped over a sturdy wooden table as if he were the sole conversation piece entertaining a living room lined with well worn sofas. All seats were vacant as the hopes within the one singular remaining guest. A woman whose darkness rivalled her own light, care worn with worry and expectation, neither defeated nor besting but a virtual tangible presence within herself.

The other guests had scurried away with fearful speculations of how to gaslight the evenings events. Death was not the first to succumb. The other deceased were held in esteem although, however, deemed necessary. That Death meet ends was entirely a privileged indulgence by guests with the penchant and capacity to make problems go away behind the smoke between cloudy mirrors.

The Dark Lady sat motionless on the sofa. Blackened hair sprawled across her shoulders to drape her torso in a shadowy veil that hid her breathing from the unseen. Bright blue eyes moistened, threatening to pool into unwanted streams of thought and emotion. Wordlessly, Death watched the scenes unfold in her mind. In that moment after perishing where all one’s attention on worldly cares coalesces into knowing everything directly without filters he made the choice to remain there with her, watching breathless as his intentions slowly deconstructed towards the inevitable journey of soul.

She watched silently as his ecktheric light faded, the patterns of unconscious awareness unravelling set her soul to movements only the living dead could know.
Desperately the innermost heart of her was fastened on a single strand of luminosity.
The one that when it breaks loose its hold on the body one’s connection to this world is gone forever.
One by one each connection breaking loose sparked within her a desire to let the overwhelming truth sink with her into a pit of despair, never to crawl out again, never again venture the risk of... anything.

With each twinkling of collapsed attention her soul stepped itself nobly against her own mind and perceptions and will, inching itself relentlessly towards its own fall as the man in front of her bled away the very thing she herself was trying to hold dearly within.

Unabated the progression went on until the last significant luminous strand was all but spent of its inherent tenacity with life. Unabated, the woman could no longer hold on to hope and let go resigning herself to a world of dark nothingness without the will of a good man lifting her visions for the future. So close to the light, and fall. Fall though, she chose in that moment, anguish taking her posture in the middles, and she wept with the amber gold tears of soul for the man ruthlessly spent in front of her.

Death felt his respiration and heartbeat slow past the point of sustaining life, his consciousness moved out of his body past the frothiness associated with mental processes. With each collapse of luminous attachment to the world more and more clarity, less and less of the world.

He focused on the small room, to remain, as it is decreed that Death should not die rather be known as the process of life held firmly in love driven by the wisest fear.

There are no words for the dead. Only meanings. Truth of soul. A thousand voices shouting the words I Love You are as hollow tin bells drown in a wave of meaning found within one soul that can express it authentically within a genuine gesture.
What lie can the dead know but only their own erroneous and twisted reflection, in death self love avails one of little more than less of one’s self.
Knowing what only the dead can know, what could possibly restore life?
What it means to live, to love, and to be driven to do so for fear is the heart of living love that propels one into actions greater than one’s self.

As Death attenuated his remaining body of consciousness to the room where he lay reposed before the woman observing his departure he heard the sounds of horns and brass, as if to announce a Divinity. The room was silent except for her breathing and whispered prayers.

In the cacophony of her mind death pleaded the meaning of his life bidding her to save him from final demise. It all seems so simple from the other side, why some depart, why some remain, there is only one common denominator, and what it means.

Even so, the voices of the dead cannot raise what has not been sown, and where there was no seed there can be no harvest. What is in the heart is in the heart, and that’s all there really is that is real for anyone with a soul purified by death and divinity.

So full of self doubt, so empty and alone, so ready to commit to an uncertain vision of the future that promised something better for everyone, so utterly perfect and deserving her title with only one little problem laying before her devastation.

The final luminosity had run it’s course, there would be no further movement of respiration or blood.
Death let go, blinking out of the astral planes and awakening within his own familiar body, laying on a hard wooden table next to goddess weeping over him.

His breath returned peacefully and unnoticed, heartbeat normal, consciousness normal as if he had taken a nap, or a bit too much to drink. It was always this way for Death, as much as he could ever desire to die there was this one thing always brought him back from the brink of it as if nothing had ever happened. The breath of life love and wisdom that only the divinely graced can offer to another as a free gift undeserved.

Restored unbeknownst to his divine saving grace, he listened attentively to her captivating anguish until it subsided into a moment of peaceful acceptance.

Gently he turned onto his side to face her grief, ‘Sweetheart, why are you crying, do you know that you’re Divine?”
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Re: Divine Grace

I am reminded again of this thing about the old rhyme;
little miss muffet (what's in a name anyway?) sat on a tuffet (a soft furry painful to touch snail) eating her curds (stomach slugs from the spitoon in the saloon) and whey (assuming you really don't wanna hear about that) when along came a spider (toxic intelligent and creepy as fk) sat down beside her and scared miss muffin away.

Your guess is better than mine what really happened but I'll posit that Miss Muffit was drunk or on drugs and in a hurry. Perhaps... if she'd taken her time smelling roses instead of spitoons none of this would have happened to begin with and baby wouldn't need a new pair of shoes again.

If only I had an imagination, i'd be like the scarecrow looking for his brain instead of a raven riding the train.
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