Erik Rittenberry
Jan 27 · 1 min read

Midnight moon bleeds in the violent dark,
subtle breeze, evanescent shadows,
stars harmonize in the ancient night
as the bare branches of cold trees
quiver and shiver against the
backdrop of the unfurling
of the universe
around me.

And there I am, sitting campfire
in psychedelic reverie
away from the
of the asphalt world,
into the never-ending
of the timeless
where the kaleidoscopic
wash away the conditioned
spawned out of a doomed

The voice says:
yourself from what you think
you’re seeing, and look to the
of your being, where the mind
discerns with splendid purity
the essence of the primordial
beginnings of it all.

And it’s there, right there
in the dark dungeon of myself
where the inherent guilt,
invoked by our long-ago eviction
from paradise,
burns away
by the fierce light of
the return
the return
the return
and the plump little cherubs smile
as the music plays and the flaming
sword is lowered as the gates fling
open, and I, once again, walk into
the glory of the garden,
the infinite reservoir of
as the night throbs
to the greatest silence
there ever was.

Erik Rittenberry

Written by

Everything has been figured out, except how to live.

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