Look into the heart of

the acorn; find the order of

the cosmos, telos unrestrained

in a fall to earth, the molder,

the fusion of coded matter with

loamy humus. Look into the

center of the mortal soul lost

to its creaturely cipher. We

strive in wild myth-making, in

sanctioned forms of astral-projection,

without the will to perish within our

bags of bones, to decay, the denial of

death is everywhere. As much as

we would call ourselves the

crown jewel, we are yet

flung into a vague corner of

our galaxy more as a seed

than a diamond. We are buried

deep in unbound darkness. O

great the gift of faith appearing on

the day the world went

random. Every root and

tendril of the oak resounds

with its end, it can be no

other. For now we wake to

our own passing, fallen, glad we

are so that no scheme nor

system will be employed to save

that which was meant for the

ground to swallow whole. We

are prone in the light of

heaven, steeped in the

waters of the firmament. We

find ourselves in kinship with

the green of earth that dies and

lives and prospers in each. In

such we are learning a new

language of prayer and


in the fullness of life

dreamed of by acorns.

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