An echo can travel for thousands of miles weaving through natures vibrating speakers of Rocks; undulating through the tiny cracks and crevice’s creating wave forms of altruistic connection, rooting out anger and despair. When you scream into the dark leafy forest, owls peering in, clothed in soft velvet skin. Dreamscape becomes clearer, the fogginess choked up in petrol fumes the earth tolerates, disappears.
Yet comes from the Oil that Anoints her Ocean and this she tastes of ecstasy used to fuel our travel into super highways and disrespects the man-made machine. The mechanism that have taken over! The invisible tanks of the War Machine. Little ‘Tonker Trucks’ of vicious tracks of seed, greedily planting their misery deed.
Innocent child what happened? Who stripped you bare? Full lips ripe and juicy as adult flesh moves in – and you transcend the body to return to peace yet deny the climax of precious Oil to share with future love, as their perversion undulates.
– I write on behalf of the Earth in scriptures of the burning soul. The aching loss that fuels this travesty yet knowing everywhere she transcribes to us her bosom of trust, vaporised in her burning fiery pits of volcanic lust. Knowing one cold polar tilt and we too are “ashes to ashes, dust to dust” – blessed in the innocent I Trust.
She is powerful and tolerates our ‘frackeries!’ Messing with her sacred formulae’s like crazy weird scientists. Imposters with soulless faces programmed by an illusionary force which hunts and mines and digs for precious revenue. Yet we ask you who are these schemers and connivers who con the soul into believing it’s free? A bounty-hunter that dictates how much seed you must sow?
Do you not tend to your own Garden?
A prismatic ‘bird of paradise’ who spits out fodder to replenish the land. Then shot for sport, to be laughed at and picked up in the trained dogs mouth who cannot even press down to taste sweet flesh of survival. His DNA instincts messed with, distorted in this fucked up, out of control game, used as ‘blood sport’ to feed the insatiable need for the lust for plasma.
When you have been drained of blood, weird scapulars of armour occur. It is intoxicating and driven to want the whole Tank to empty and begin again! The ‘bad blood’ of judgement, platelets of poison. Curses removed from sad abuser family who make no apologies for being horrors. Because their blood is infected with the animal stench of death fed to our marrow DNA, falsely convinced it craves this?
A system who assaults the earth, violates her flesh and spits on her peat graves filled in the abyss of hatred and repression of slaves. Yet a solitary tiny white flower grows in this vicious swamp, converted into goodness as the time-bomb ticks on.
Injected plug-ins telling the slave when to dance, to romance their soul through ‘movie projector screens’ who live their life in the trance. The earthlings so heavily programmed to notice, too tanked up on alcohol brew and broken sex, used as fodder for the machine! Responsible for the destruction of true art-form lust: The lust for eternal life – not a half-life perverted projection that cunningly steals sacred seed, flower of ecstasy.
Some rare flowers do not flower for a thousand years; their voice emerges as the nectar is crushed upon the marching soldier’s feet squashed into thinking he is boss, until the flower cleverly releases its fragrance of freedom. It just here for a short ride and attached to no-thing, no meaning to shrivelling up and dying, as long as its fragrance is released, it has served its part in the corrupted holographic machine: The humble bee has smelt its dying message and drinks this life-giving essence to procreate the eternal goodness of earth.
So, the vicious cycle of life and death on this green, watery blue planet is converted to eternal goodness despite the mirage of soulless dreams escaping through bubbles of mesh barb wire, seared like a peace of barbecue meat eaten without regard or blessing for the chopped up bits of soul that is feasted upon.
So, we breathe in this vileness as acceptable and the norm because we do not have the time, or inclination in the artificial machine to assess what our parents fed to us as giver of life; How much of our Soul DNA is entrenched in the misery of millions of lost soul fragments who ignorantly feast upon these broken pieces.
What can we do other than compassionately accept and unhook, unlock from a distorted programme that is fed from the bile of humanity and until transcended – lovingly bless All as sacred who enter our sweet flesh to grow as the ‘seed of life’ which begins the cycle again.