The essence of self, as strange as it seems, is an illusion complete, and torn at the seems, in her dreams we waltz, and dance with great kings, but in a mortal life we shall perish, and feel deaths false claim. In the sunny skies or in a gloomy rain, he is there, we are there, we are he, our hearts are stained, yet his is not, the immortal son, the man we perceive as the fathers son, yet aren’t we all, so gifted with bliss, the gift of the forbidden fruit and life after this, always we exist weather we plan it or not, it’s a miraculous puzzle and the creator stays hot, hot with its mind, his mind, who is he, a mortal mind cannot grasp that he is much more than a he, the winds and the rain, the salt in the sea, the flesh on my skin, the cry of a chimpanzee, the eyes of our friends, the friends of our lies, a never-ending land of mercy and grace and reprise, this place, so enchanting, through the creek he lightly walks, speaking with the minnows in the stream, listening to them talk, without one of us, the land we love would be dead, would be rotten and cold, or never here at all, but we are in this land, we are in his humble awe, so the end never is, we continue to love, the state of hate and fear in this land where death is a fate you cannot escape, rather you be in grace of a choice, of a decision to hear his booming voice, her soft spoke whisper or run through the bitter snows of a charred frozen winter. The ascension is here, and has already begun; we are all here because we are all one.

III