Image for the poem Crossing Over

Crossing Over

I’ve gotten multiple inquiries asking me in regards to why I write about Angels
If I close my eyes, I can picture the reminisce of Hell and Heaven, as if I was there among the three Kings journeying, awaiting to see a false illusion in a manger    
Ancient times is so misunderstood, everyone claiming to be some Demigod or the encircled one in grandeur rites of the five rings of witchhood    
Exemplifying to be the best, casting first stones, promising in vanity to be the chosen one, no, it is only an assertion which wallows when the mind is mentally unfit, resurrected as a misfit, when you are blind and cannot fathom your small presence among the celestial offering is ordained by fate’s shift    
Misguided from planetary mystical alliance that has somehow turned off the Crown Charka switch    
That sacredness to behold the truth and stand in the light is a rare and unforetold gift    
Spoken words from the mind can never explain that galactic drift    
I really could care less about amulets, spooks, spells, tarot cards, hexes, curses or when the heart and mind double deals    
My oath as I walk upright in obscurity within my Divinity existence is to always heal      
Anything judgment upon my cross is from the mouth of ignorant as it so forth spills    
Most would say they have the answers, yet to what questions if you are a non believer    
Your Chi, your inner temple are at the mercy of rubbing the Buddha’s abdomen to manifest a dream weaver    
Attuned intellects will gravitate through the realm of space, Father Time    
Pedestals we give ourselves of our own kind      
Yet, we bleed from veins to sustain breath as life and death entwines      
Eyes closed, soul elevated    
Past the pages of the Book of Revelations    
You are in Genesis the beginning of mankind    
Exodus mars the strips of the body as we take communion in the blood of Yeshua’s bloodline    
St. Matthew the resurrection of the soul    
The New testament tainted by the hatred of the real melanin Jews by Christianity, scholars unconsoled      
That gray area is a whole new sphere, just as a second in time is too long    
The tick tock of the naked soul, is where the virginal spirit roams    
It appears as earth, where you have a Heaven and Hell    
Souls battling for superiority, the biblical scrolls will never tell    
The Masterful Sinners are the ones you must watch, the taste of your innocence they already have on lock    
No rainbow colors to ever foretell the afterlife    
Heaven is the third rite of passage when the gray area you surpass from flesh to soul, it survives your being without strife    
Ascending to those Pearly Gates, oh what a beautiful sight      
Looking down from above inhaling the doctrine The Father-earth, The son-Hell, The Holy Ghost- Heaven    
The Monks, The Preacher, the Theologist and its total disregard to give warning of the number eleven    
Chaos, suffrage, doom and gloom, ask the insipid man who celebrates Thanksgiving in the eleventh month    
Then Black Friday, Moorish souls showcased as labored consecrated meat, money given upfront    
Paganism holidays we give unto the almighty dollar    
We worship consumerism ideology, empty pockets we bow, nonetheless, money to sustain the cost of living, is only getting smaller      
I tell you no lies, an inebriated mouth is the Trinity which harbors the master key to Infinity    
Unrefined, and the chance to be the testimony of our Creator’s designs    
No one really knows the truth, I am only being precarious    
A soul that has glimpsed into that hushed gray area    
The nine circles of Hell it does not exist    
If the ideal gives enlightenment to your intellect, then that fable is what shall be, to give you peace if your mind persist    
Bringing it back down to earth    
If you cannot give me my wings any faster, then your opinions are of no worth    
With mercy I am here after the rebirth    
Twice they echoes of life and death beyond the ecclesiastical of ashes to ashes dirt to dirt    
I am who I am, I run free, no ancestral chains, I live as I breathe      
You may read the brushstrokes my pages veils of me    
In this lifetime you will never be able to touch the mysterious of my femininity mystique
Written by SweetKittyCat5
Published | Edited 13th Jan 2021
Author's Note
Every parting gives a foretaste of death, every reunion a hint of the resurrection.

Arthur Schopenhauer
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