DISCLOSURES

My Dearest Friend,

Of late, I have been visited By the specter of my younger self—

An apparition of me from years long past.

In our exchange of thoughts,

I am reminded of the stanched wilderness

In which I now dwell.

The heavens, once full of divine inspiration, are locked.

I have not been blessed

By showers of cosmic grace.

This ghost of my childhood

Speaks of delirious brilliance,

Of the potent madness that once gripped my soul—

A toxic baptism With which I was baptized,

When I wandered the boundless realm Of my imaginings.

But alas!

The gate to that enchanted world Is jealously guarded

By the foul sentinels of reality,

Who, with cruel intent,

Seek to mold me into a man

Through sufferings of want:

Want of coin, of bread, of raiment—

When I would rather remain

A child, untamed in curiosity, undisciplined in adventure.

That child who visited me

Now languishes,

Afflicted with the sickness

Reality inflicts.

He yearns for that sweet madness—

The reprieve that only long intervals Of insanity afford.

I pen this brief missive to you,

My cherished companion,

With fervent hope

That you, too, shall take up arms

Against these vile sentinels,

And as we march—unrelenting—

Toward the inevitable end,

Let us breathe life once more Into the fading breath

Of that dying child.

Yours, In kindred spirit,

Bezaleel

Bezaleel

I look upon this letter With great excitement

And sorrow—

Sorrow,

A longing for a treasure once accessed

Only by the wildest of souls.

Children at heart,

Offspring of the wind,

Seeking,

Exploring,

Treading every path,

Visible and unknown.

Excitement—

An intoxication

That drives me In the pursuit of madness And wisdom.

Like a song of enchantment,

It sings, it echoes—

Sounds known only To those who seek at heart.

Privileged are we,

You and I, dear friend,

To journey past the threshold—

Reason and logic,

Things of mortals—

This fallen world,

A hollow echo of things that are,

And things that will be.

Inglorious, we are summoned—

To the sacred search, To the dreaded conclave Of immortals.

The Immortal conscious, I say,

Rejoice!

We shall breathe life Into that dying specter,

That ember flame—

It will rise once more!

We shall purge this world in fire,

Terraform this plane by high realities.

I see!

Your kindred soul,

Seeker

My Dearest Friend,

Nigh the stroke of midnight hour,

I saw in mind a tale so vivid—

A tale of a phoenix rising from the ashes,

In the visitations on my pillow, I saw

An arid desert land, barren and unforgiving,

And lo, incense rose to the heavens

Ascending before Elyon from a watcher's hand

The incense bore the sounds of many saints

Whose raiment were white dipped in blood.

The watcher shouted and the heavens shook

the earth trembled at his voice

Ah, I beheld a dark cloud like the fist of a man

I saw chariots running with intense fury,

with a man clothed upon with camel's cloak

I heard the sound of an abundance of rain—

the showers of Elyon's waters.

My stanched wilderness now yields her strength

the rocky plains have become fruitful fields

and the fruitful fields, a woody forest.

The phoenix has risen once more

My dying child, that fading breath

Now runs wild with the budding

flames of infernal desires

Seeker, Kindred Spirit, my dearest friend

To nurture the flame of madness

lying in the bosom of the specter of years long past

We must be bathed with Elyon's waters