Some of the seeds lay dormant, holding out for another round, another time, another call, like the anesthesia for the comatose chameleons.
But slowly the scent of light called out to the 100 trillion cells of a noble lineage. Words began to percolate, words that morphed into stories…stories of courage, of shame, of anger, of love and loss, of misery and demonized morality.
And as the seeds poked their pointy heads from the ground they were drawn to each other…the synergistic commitment to a larger call…like how geese fly south for the winter and dogs know the way out of the woods and horses gather speed on the homeward journey. The seeds of light baring their microscopic tongues – tongues licking wisdom into the saliva varnished vessel of the collective…like the ancient Hawaiian calabashes of light.
Go ahead…call it a cult if you want. She drank from the moistened jar of white moonlight, igniting her spirit to step forth, saving us all from the suicide of the cloistered lies, her overt acts of altruism, untying the wobbly reins of our sleigh of freedom.
Go ahead, check them. Her fingernails dirty on some time lapse commitment to anarchy, indebting us to the deep voice of one another. Like Hieroglyphs of the cosmic charades, tortured thumbprints of the moonbow clusters, old bones and old tongues spewing curses to God, serving the muse instead of the ego and the slurring words of the drunken militia…like the freeze dried dew on the fallen redwood giants of our promises of prophecy….like the starry headed pilgrims of the collective underground.