Sepsis of the heart,
the antiquated death in digits
once forgotten, brought to
mind by the searing black
that agitates the blood
and quivers in the heart,
it bargains for influence
in the stream of consciousness
deemed material by man
and ephemeral by god.

The waves came then.
The ones passionate about the cause
the first to go and the first to die. Those
whom could not remember, lost in a desert
pronounced of shards and glass. Those
crashed along the beaches of suicide.
They entered into a world they did not
bargain for, many unable to handle
the strength of riptide gravity
and the coerced magic wielded
by the programmers; those whom
designed the energetic matrix,
like a vortex, an aperture in
the air before you, mock their
own achievements by sharing
with the world a hoax bigger
than racism. It is an energy
ring meant to disrupt the first
wave.

The second wave brought the intelligible
and the tempered. Those trained in deep
magic and linked in twelve dimensions
fabricated by the will of man. Those whom
would remember, and would cross the
brazen sea, ride deep the current of its
sustenance, and curve its gravities,
change the shape and the temperature
internalized by its creator, a joker
that skewed the illusion of evil
into validation of good. It presented
itself as a creature of dual nature,
declared its life absolute, declared
its influence through deception,
it is a spirit conscience that
traverses through the frequencies
to hunt the inequities and use them
as tools to destroy the children
of the sun. And when remembered,
the spirit cannot overcome the
second; it can only speak its
intentions, and tell its truths
like lies; confuse, confound,
depress, distract. It has many
names and many personalities,
but is a legion negative and
purposed, transmuted and
transposed to the light
by the vigilant workers
whom sacrifice experience
to complete the mission,
rejoicing as she raises,
lifts, ensconced in the ether
of the galactic core, and the
heart of man, verdant in
the tones of love, gratitude
and forgiveness.

The unthinking prowess
of the third wave; those existing
simply to be, a generation of angels
writing and creating without inspiration,
the energy shifting in their presence.
Their presence an assistance to strike
at the unseen pockets hidden in our
world. Succeeded in shredding the
existence of duality. There can be light
without dark. There can be good without
evil. There can be a god without a devil.
The trick of words and reasoning,
the wardens of the heart, strip away
discernment no more. The veins
buzz frenetic, light receptors of the
galactic core. The DNA dances,
thankful. The third eye opens
and suddenly we see what
things are made of, and
see the spirit of the people.
And we discern those
touched, and discern their
hunger for rage, and the
accolades given when
power tricks the people
into blind animals,
and the symbolism was
enough to divide; and the
skin tone was enough to divide;
and opposing philosophies were
easy enough to divide.

Galactic warriors bring this party
to an end. An orgy of forgotten and
neglected love calloused into the
most sour resentment, depression
and wanton revenge. The word of
man intoned by magic, influenced
when spoken, believed when
received hindered by words of
four letter, is the archetype
of the devil’s motivation,
tethered to the emotion
lost in the vast cold and
empty sepulcher he
broadcasts from
resentment
neglect
loneliness
depression
bitterness
scorn
anger
fear.

The former things have passed away,
brother.  A new system has risen with
the planet, has graduated a class
energetic and weightless; has centered
and revitalized; has centered itself
into the new world where the discerning
eyes of the masses, the billions around
the globe deep shining their intentions
of love, though met by resistence, merges
with the spirit of the world, and expels
the final demons, expunges the history
those demons made, and rectifies the
truth unknown, to the newly opened
hearts of the once undignified, and
reconciles with the detached violence
of the spirit when in possession,
when owning, when attacking
the waves that came, and tasked
to alter their experience so
their transmission be lost in
space, and the magnetic
waves that will carry
them deep into our
enlightened past.

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“Parties End” is written by Michael Aaron Casares. All rights reserved.