Giordano Bruno

Cleave to your mother’s breast; no escape but to crawl back into the womb; moon it sustains, silver it pertains to your muse careful whom you choose, daylight hides the subconscious.

Chew on the bark, internalize medicine from the tree your body is a coalition of what — it — accepts not knowing what — it — accepts; rejecting finest opulence in the face of the morning sun.

Chase your ancestors — they know — what they expect; ancient knowledge cleaves at your kidneys, waiting, waiting for you to pull it out, within you are stores, the treasure house of A.D.; what — you — know is that, already pre-dated never outnumbered, falsity falls away far down into feathers, dissolves into nectar, wipe the salivation clean, rise as the born — again; you are born again.

Cleave to your mother’s breast, then, let go, chase nothing but salvation, interludes inside your organs, drumming to the beat of neurons firing directing your bloodstream, white and red, cells — no confusion, no illusion, your heart beats and wavers not; it is you that wavers — confusion, illusion, notions of separation, never the truth for you cannot be separate from what created you; zero-one; creation point can never be undone.

Create, go ahead and vilify and praise in your creation; desperation of uncleaving you change the world through your eyes, despise is never a solution, devolve authority if you must, upper crust of the Earth revolves around devolution, for it is, in absolution, that we become, one.

Literally Literary

We've Got a Story for You

Anna Rozwadowska

Written by

Top Writer in Poetry, editor of Literally Literary. I am a writer, photographer, psychic, medium, and spiritual guide.I have an M.A. in Environmental Sociology.

Literally Literary

We've Got a Story for You