The Apocalypse

 It is time.

The apocalypse.

It is the unveiling of what was in charge of your mind so many years ago. It is the unveiling of archetypes. Anger is an ancient word for regret. Self-pity is not mastery. Self-pity is a ruthless portrayal of what was once love…and then lost. I am so regretful.  Longing is a mirage.

The veil has slipped. The archetypes. The imagined ones. The shake it with all you got ones.

 The work ones. The shepherds, vanished, leaving only echoes.

They are dreams broken, archetypes who drained the life of insight, of revelation.

They are dripping with sarcasm. With ego. With death defying journeys that bring home the fated ones to the hearth, to arms of warm, not of peace but of fortitude. Anguish with every swing of the ax.

Anguish with every blow to the heart. Anguish with every I must perform …to do this, or else. 

The veil is lifting.

Now.

Why did I have to race home? The energy is so high. The archetypes are leaving. The archetypes are going towards home.    

What is truth. Compassion.

What is evil, the unalive, not awakened ones.

What is peace?

What is happiness?

What is nurturing?

What is abandonment?

What is caring?

How do we develop tools to be that which are sustaining? How do we reach our goals? Our ends. To meet the needs of the one? Of the God force within us?

To tell the truth when lies are so much easier on the heart and in some ways the soul. Why the suffering? I am so angry that I have not successfully stood up against the tyrants. I have swayed and been pushed over.  

Thinking ‘they are idiots' but remaining silent. I am sorry.  Anger or regret.

Fear, regret, anger; each born of the other, circling endlessly.