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"Love is the currency of the Divine."
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ContactbyH. Vanoy Barton They dreamed of the moon, they worshiped the stars. Frightened, small and frail, they tread destiny's trail. They struggled and underwent much travail, and built steep walls around their hearts. They hoped for a signal or a sign, begged for surcease from priest, shaman, and king; built cathedrals of gold, ramparts of knowledge, mighty castles sturdy and bold. They warred and bitterly fought and toiled and bought, they stole, lied, cheated and swore, sang songs, made art, made love, found science, found religion: grew old. They pined for the touch of majesty, but, alas, they lost hope, they never found the brass ring. They ranted and chanted, but were humbled by the heavens and the stars. They listened to sermons from popes, speeches from scholars, diatribes from presidents; espoused theories, invented doctrine, performed great wonders, did deeds of malice and vile intent. They brewed lager, drank wine, grew restless, debased themselves with ignoble crimes: They invented money, they idolized entertainment and wit. They sought an exit from the pit. They sweated under a single light, spinning in the vastness of space. Ignored by fate, never winning: prisoners of their hopeless hate. Alone, they were so sad, and, so alone, this ethereal, Terran race. To the bone, to the bone they hurt, and, they longed, they yearned, and, they wanted. Haunted by the ghosts of their own making, seeking the elusive route, they searched for a way out: they writhed upon their painful rack. They searched without, and within, and, still, millennia came and went, never closing the awful rent. Realization never came that they were whole, each a part of the One, each held the key that would unlock the chains and bring relief from the pain. They never loved each other completely, they never made contact. 
© 2005 - 2008 H. Vanoy Barton, all rights reserved. |
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