The Matrix

(Satan Smiting Job with Sore Boils, William Blake, c1826)

The Matrix

Fierce is the storm that rises from the abyss

All must yield in its path

The weak curl; the timid falter

Only conviction of mind, strength of will, does one push through

Damaged and drained, savagery sneers 

Darkening the brilliance of Source

The depths of Hell keep coming

There is no reprieve, only openings for despair–

Moments of bliss are only deceptions of reality

Belief in the Almighty spares your spirit

But Evil’s wrath ravages your soul

A feather is no weapon against a sword

And yet, we still breathe in the rapture of existence

3 thoughts on “The Matrix

  1. Well done. I enjoyed the dynamic tension that plays out between good and evil as well as light and dark. It’s interesting that even a glimpse of the supernatural saves the spirit. I wonder if we could awake to the light would the feather a sword?

    Like

  2. Well done. I enjoyed the dynamic tension that plays out between good and evil as well as light and dark. It’s interesting that even a glimpse of the supernatural saves the spirit. I wonder if we could awake to the light would the feather be a sword?

    Like

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