03-27-2017, 04:57 PM
THE SUN WILL BE TURNED TO DARKNESS
AND THE MOON TO BLOOD BEFORE THE COMING
OF THE GREAT AND GLORIOUS DAY OF THE LORD.
AND THE MOON TO BLOOD BEFORE THE COMING
OF THE GREAT AND GLORIOUS DAY OF THE LORD.
“Cordis,” he repeats back, clumsy-tongued.
No. He doesn’t know it.
Mother sings other hymns – of the Father and other earthly things, flesh and so on – but of ‘Cordis’, nothing. Or nothing the man has taken with him, for he discards minor thoughts and recollections daily, leaving them in rubbish heaps along his merry, dumb pilgrimage.
He cannot recognize that she has been touched by the Father, as mother had. He knows nothing of that sacrament – nothing of the signs left behind. His own stigmata is a dead, senseless thing. The Father’s work, to be sure, but it had not been a deliberate labor of His.
One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight extinct stars, bruised purple down his neck, connected by thin lines, like exposed veins – when the Father gave him this, it had not hurt and it had not been with care, but the spilling of spacestuff, errant and hot, into mother.
The Son has never met Him.
He can recognize that she is made of the same expensive, precious cloth as him and mother. He can see that she is an offering, like all of them, though she is a thorny one, thick with angry electricity – so, perhaps, she is unwilling, but the Father has plans for everyone.
“I am Pentecost. I must know you,” he tilts his shiny, pretty head, purple hair falling across his serpent stars, “everyone else is so dull. Not like me and mother. And you. We are special.”
They are twisted, lustrous, exquisite wreckage.
They have the free will the Father has no generously given them.
No. He doesn’t know it.
Mother sings other hymns – of the Father and other earthly things, flesh and so on – but of ‘Cordis’, nothing. Or nothing the man has taken with him, for he discards minor thoughts and recollections daily, leaving them in rubbish heaps along his merry, dumb pilgrimage.
He cannot recognize that she has been touched by the Father, as mother had. He knows nothing of that sacrament – nothing of the signs left behind. His own stigmata is a dead, senseless thing. The Father’s work, to be sure, but it had not been a deliberate labor of His.
One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight extinct stars, bruised purple down his neck, connected by thin lines, like exposed veins – when the Father gave him this, it had not hurt and it had not been with care, but the spilling of spacestuff, errant and hot, into mother.
The Son has never met Him.
He can recognize that she is made of the same expensive, precious cloth as him and mother. He can see that she is an offering, like all of them, though she is a thorny one, thick with angry electricity – so, perhaps, she is unwilling, but the Father has plans for everyone.
“I am Pentecost. I must know you,” he tilts his shiny, pretty head, purple hair falling across his serpent stars, “everyone else is so dull. Not like me and mother. And you. We are special.”
They are twisted, lustrous, exquisite wreckage.
They have the free will the Father has no generously given them.
for the record, if this even need be said, you are free to take this wherever <3
Your sons and daughters will prophesy,
your young men will see visions,
your old men will dream dreams.
- Acts 2:17
your young men will see visions,
your old men will dream dreams.
- Acts 2:17