The Burial Urn
by Herusept
In tortured chambers of the soul
a broken urn of doubt and woe
cries amidst it's shattered missing pieces.
Once the world seemed bright and whole
shining in a golden glow
that fed life's growing seas of imagination.
And those who built and shaped the Earth
lived as gods and gave new birth
to the stories that the people tell today.
But who remembers from where we came
and all we've lost and all we've gained
to know the holy moment that lasts forever?
Painted on the urn lived scenes
of source light sun's and fertile greens
that danced a love which knew no seperation.
The urn had lived as hands and eyes
and dreams which wandered past the skies
to burn eternal fires of inspiration.
But now the clock ticks slow it seems
and only few dare dream the dream
to finally put the pieces back together.
Past the cries of doubt and woe,
past weeping chambers of the soul,
exist the gods experiencing forever.
In a moment which will never pass,
though stars may change as nothing lasts,
endless mind unfolds itself through matter.
The source of life dances along
as ten angels sing ten sacred songs
to harmonize the Cosmo's as it moves.
In their songs a call rings out,
waking souls from death and doubt,
beckoning all to come embrace love's pure awareness.
The consciousness that lives has gone
ten billion years and light years long
to breathe each breath and make life possible.
The broken urn of woeful pride
within a tortured chamber hides
One key to unlock the palace of the immortal.
Ten urns within the palace hold
grey ashes of the saints of old
who gave up their selves to loving inspiration.
And all the blood their bodies held
has made us drunk as moments meld
and morph as love's continuous creation.
"No more pain," tolls deaths marriage bell,
"No more loss and no more hell."
"Everything will all come around to this."
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