The Full Moon Brings Out The Ascending Sign To Unwind for a bit..

Tiring of little ones, from their small-minded games, frustrating the patience out of a spiritual one among them, but not of them, and shoving it back in their face.  Running on empty, of supporting or caring of their intellectual environment nor conditions, as games are for players, not spiritual ones that aren’t tied to money, causing a rift between what they believe is right or wrong in their beliefs.  Not aware, that we are verbs, not nouns to stay in-place or judgment, but staying always adaptable to conditions and conditioning put on by men, too big in their own mind to notice that their mental britches are down, out for the count and knocked-out by a feathers’ weight, from lovers, not fighters.  Never to be a believer in mans’ dying body and mind attached to religion, dogma, and scriptures written by little men, making feminine inferior and subservient to their proclamations, animalistic tendencies and desires, locking themselves in convents to keep their inner truth from coming out of its shell of man’s bombardment.

Over thousands of years of religious fervor and indoctrination of their mindset, to gullible little ones who remain superstitious and swayed by apocryphal preachings and sermons from shadowed disfigures of true spirit.  Not to be caged, fenced, or delivered into structures or beliefs nor preconditions set long ago by masculine, one-sided thinkers, delivering sermons on mounts of clay, and clouding an ancient figures’ good name.  Preaches of beliefs, setting patterns of behavior, to keep feminine as second-class citizens, merely tolerating their input, but demanding their following.

Mother Nature blasphemed from critical piety, the only Sol physically surviving their onslaught of thousands of years and tears of constraint, rape, and pillage of Her contents.  Same as they do with their own contents, bishops and popes knowing while piling upon the poor, who look to them for hope.  But the weight always brought to bear upon their followers, the priests always getting-off, bodily functions and criminal charges.  Ah, to be blessed by a little one, in a fanciful robe, hiding withheld information in libraries with keys, locked from prying eyes of those who question beyond belief, until they remove their royalty-given robes that merely warm the body up, and keep the poorest that they contain, refrain, and convulse in the dark of truth and consequences that are warmed in the light of a new dawn, when all clothing is taken off, and only the naked is bared for all of the worlds to see, no secrets to conceal.

Their history, his story, not Hers, and they’re stickin’ to it, have to, it’s written down.  From here-on-out, they may only “interpret” as we do not understand the original interpretation.  Silly boys, we tyre of this bs.  Through Her nature, of naturally occurring events, from Sol’s higher perspective larger pictures develop when not in mankind, or his mind, controlling narratives, wars, and rumors.

Cast them all out, robes, designer suits, and uniformed pieties, from my further understandings.  Wiping feet with their subjected honey corrupted as all things they touch are, from one side, theirs, of an argument.  Cleaning off the stench of days gone by, of little ones, little minds, and forsaken souls.  Sparks container, not contained by beliefs in gods and demons, making them up as they went along, scribes in-league with little kings, little saints, and little ones controlling and putting a lid upon Sparks, until their ancestors give up, give in, and get onboard making tracks and hell on earth for Her, Us, and All that continue to grow in natural ebb and flow, weeding their inner gardens before they grow and weed Hers, nurturing themselves and Her in the re-conditioning of our soil, Soul food not to contain but lift, the spirit above the Eons that men have used to keep us down, in the body and mind, not in spiritual endeavors, allowing priests and third-party advocates to speak, think, and feel for us.

Spiritual immatures, toddlers in spiritual diapers and getting their rewards all over themselves and nowhere higher or further, content to stay in diapers, and smell up the place for the rest of the natural composters seeking to improve and nurture Her nature, of a Being, in a body, not contained by it, but lit by the darkness of those laying out the bull in theirs, and knowing not believing that most vessels are nouns, anchored, staying in-place and conditioning, while the verbs of us keep moving, adapting, and growing in Her foundational nurturing of Self and selves willing to forego what’s going on outside, and being programmed to stay there, outside our true spiritual nature…

 

*Modwiz*

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