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11/04/2019 / Harry Browne

The Descent by Brid Mary Harnett

Loaded with admissions, contrite confessions of,’ I did and please forgive me,’ and the wetted ground softens gently to walk on under my calloused feet, shock absorbent, to catch the movement of my pelvic cage and femoral extensions.
It is just as well. I vaulted yesterday until there was a space in my back. Such is my feeling for my blood and my extended core being. When the pain stings badly -very badly, I take myself out to a place I can see and understand and that is how I know what to do. Because I am one of them, close to them, until they enter my eyes and my ears to help me to find who I must know. And still the clouds have not yet yielded full, fluffed open for the descent of the wettest swirls of heaven. Fountains. They taught me that there.
Messages fall for us to know that we are remembered. God willing, we are known there. God willing, we have approval, the coveted ticks in the checkboxes of the Almighty, who is Allah.
God willing, we won’t fall.
There is a Listener and there are listeners, so that we will not wander.
Water collects and children play and the sky says, “Hmm…” echoing the Leader, our Leader. But, it is not murmured in pleasure, nor is it proud.
‘There are no heroes here,’ He says,’ Only people. My people.’
He looks.
He hates arrogance and affected paraphernalia.
And he loves-everyday.
But even he cannot live without permission.
Mock me not.
And yes, it is true, I serve all of you- but I am not a servant, nor am I a slave.


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