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Rated: 13+ · Poetry · Spiritual · #2260229
Just in case you thought all I wrote was whimsy
Another iteration.
Repeat. Repeat. Repeat.
A followed inclination, to a paradise complete.
Gives insight, most meaningful.
Fullest comprehension of the scene.
Replete with interconnectivity,
From which all things decline,
Asserting independence, reliant on the time.
That separates the all from all, each thing from every other.
Yet love declines to let them go, and binds them with accord.
Universal in its influence, each synonym unites,
Antonyms dichotomise, lend useful counterpoint.
Thus emphasise transcendence, beyond the mirrored lie.

Another Iteration.
The spiral staircase climb.
A little higher than before, though familiar in its form.
Mandelbrotian fractal facets, and, here we are again.
Repeat. Repeat. Repeat.
A lesson still unlearned. Reveals another aspect.
Recognition all apace. William Blake stretches down a hand.
With a finger, swirls and learns. A stirring of unconsciousness.
May bring untold returns, as rising still, the ancient climb.
Now Jung shall be our guide.
For patterns shared and sharing, mandalas turn and thrive.
Join us in exploration, dreamlike, poetic and inspired.
Rising, slowly turning, a step beyond each last.

Another Iteration.
Look back, your future face. Janus like, the gatekeeper,
Beholds yourself anew. As I turn my face to face me,
The changes come again. Partaking of the once source.
From whence all divers came. Different in their sameness.
Once more perceived, remembered, and presently, made whole.
From a chaotic mesh, re-ordered, configured now to fit.
An understanding now expanded, and upgraded.
In readiness for climbing, once more, we're back again.
Repeat. Repeat. Repeat.
Refrain from turning back. From a Platonic form inviolate,
Perfect as intelligible, sensibly partakes of Aristotle's
Empiric perception of perfection, turns back and bites it's tail.

Another Iteration.
The last, perhaps, the first.
Each seeming, subtly different, stage posts of some great work.
Prime amongst employments. Opus. Uno. One.
The journey of a hero in extremis, dying for rebirth.
Returning to the consequence, of every Golden Age.
Braids the strands together, a golden thread of mind.
Reaching for some heights unknown.
Grappling with the dark. Blindly seeing all.
Crawled from the cave,
Cast silhouette in shadows, of a candle's flickered flame.
At once the wax, the wick, the fire. And now, once more, again.
Repeat. Repeat. Repeat.
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