soul invictus

as if you could break this,
ridicule and mistake this
for one micron less than time-refined straight bliss,

through eons forged
in the furnace of sun's cores
never diminished by venomous scorn,

not once deterred by your profane contempt,
propagated in deserts, like afghani's hemp,
in all of the places you disdain to search
the outcast who harvests from heaven and earth

the immortal nectar,
pure as starlight,
pulled from what you thought was barbarous night

climbing, entwining with etheric veins
beyond what you reckon--material claims,
from the abyss to the womb of all suns.
feeding on thistles, and all that you shun,
assembling from refuse the crystalline stair
that takes one beyond dialectic compare.

between one and zero,
your yes and your no,
is where soul can thrive
on the lucid unknown.

while you categorize,
weigh, rank and compare,
i'm here, busy feeding on ionized air

and tasting a bliss you may never know.

so berate me and judge me,
if this is your aim.
disassemble my form,
make a curse of my name

as if it protects you
by contrast, deride. . .
and see if it alters
my epoch-long strides.

and as you regress, clinging tight to your shell,
your name, fame, and pride, you will forge your own hell.
within these projections you may yet reside,
denying whatever you wish you could hide.

when, at long last, you've exhausted this way,
i'll give you the keys to the dawn of true day,
which is also the crack in your persona's face
revealing your form to be vacuous space.

if you see that this love is the light that will fill
the outcast you scorned will offer it still--
a measure per day you reject and resist,
for each vessel opened, a surfeit of bliss
. . .
copyright Peter Asher Watts 2011