by James Brittain
Out from within they wander, seeking something, someplace, somewhere to
alight and discover themselves.
But should the solitary thoughts come marching home from their foray into
the world, would they be welcome in these pulsating halls of clay?
Beggarly fugitives of carnality, they scrabble at the inner door like mice
seeking refuge from the cold.
Each rabid offspring of inner musings clamours for attention, but their
keenings go unheeded in the chambers of light.
Though they be children, my children, my unseen offspring, they shrill in
vain concerning mortal thrills and waste their puny breaths, for I cannot
think about them today.
Thought children, though they be sired from within, have no mastery over
me, but I over them. Let those few who are worthy find entrance to the
inner chambers, but let the rest languish without.
Those winged creatures which have ascended to the halls of the King and
returned, they will dine at my table;
and upon their small, but strong wings, this living house will burst the
barriers of light and bask in the aura of pure, liquid consciousness which
runs along the path of every living soul.
And those children within will make me a child again...forever.