Spirits are speakers. I’m a conduit of verse. Angels and demons use my pen for their words.
Angels are SO fly. We are forgiving misgivings. Each moment orgasmic! We’re here for the living.
If only you’d celebrate Eden’s bliss. Shed your coats of gluttony and greed. Then you’d be sated with all this! And from your hatred, you’d be freed.
You speak of ages: brass, silver, and gold. But only your sages tap times of old. We condense in perpetual light and disperse like peppered stars in the night. Our existence is love, our existence is light, our breath is life, our stories are sight.
Tantric tempers in a meditative mist, inhale the vapors of wistful wisps. You can’t see us, but we’re here, and you’ll hear us when we’re near. The shamans, scientists and story-tellers are adept to feel us… yet you so often fear their interpretations, realizations, and potential reformations.
Our words are all around you, consistent, caring, considerate, true.
Call us heavenly. Call us divine. But we too hold on to mortality’s vine.
Sadistic traps exist in our realms seductive demons over arch, overwhelm.
With peace you can exist in perpetual bliss, towers of feelings cascade through a kiss. Every moment a journey from the moment before. And only laughter at the idea of a “bore”.
Life’s a gift, you can be a saint, open the rift, cosmically paint.