Part VII

Iona Miller's Mystic Poetry Part I Part II Part III Part IV Part V Part VI Part VII Part VIII Part IX Author, Iona Miller Archive Links 2009

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Ah, the sensual bliss of a symphonic musical infusion,
Which evokes to life our muse Erato in creative seclusion.
The rhythmical shift of a slight change of key in modulation,
Can lead directly to a rapidly emergent sense of exultation.

We share a natural key signature in both bass and treble clef,
Driven by percusive timing, perceivable even by the tone-deaf.
The harmony of ideas and warm emotion raises our fever pitch;
Poetry translates into music in a couple of octaves, forthwith.

For poetry in motion requires a crucial timbre and tone,
And a solid background as well, such as a sitar’s drone.
The primal collective heartbeat of rhythm, meter, and lyric,
Combines all the Muses’ arts in relative duration etheric.

Come love me with the declarative urgency of a crescendo,
Thrill me now like the melifluous runs of a glissando.
Arouse me, building intensity from forte to fortissimo,
Then contain me with intimate quiet, well composed bellissimo.

A ladder of eternal proportions and intervals raises us to heights,
Beautiful chords: triads, harmonious fifths, augmented ninths.
In the flowing ragas of night there are no striking disharmonies,
From inspired musical rendition to strident aural anomolies.

The universal magic of obsessive humming of the strings,
Liberates through doubling and halving; the overtone rings.
Surrendering to the immutable law of vibration and rhythm,
Our bodies’ music reflects resonance of a waveshape in motion.

The subtle but constant counterpoint of a less obvious consonance,
Reveals the deepest integral order without any cognitive disonance.
In earliest mystical songs, quarter-tone modes and diatonic scale,
Were those revered modalities that long continued to prevail.

Plaintive songs of ancient temples conjured emotional catharsis,
Which sung as haunting chants could transform even a Narcissus.
So let us invoke the musical entrainment of Apollo’s poetic retinue!
A bevy of Muses: Polyhymnia, Terpsichore, and Euterpe, too.

There are mythic and metaphorical overtones in musical notation,
Whose intervals are as harmonious as spatial planetary motion.
A woven pattern of music is color lit by the light of poetry,
In eternally heroic epics sung of Man against Fate and sophistry.

In astral halls of worship resounding musical phrases unfold,
Wresting from us thought and feeling, deep and manifold.
Major declarations and the echoing appeal of a minor scale,
Conjure musical evocations which harmonic overtones entail.

Entranced Muses dance in a chorus led by Apollo’s lyre;
They might also sing a tragic dirge at a hero’s funeral pyre.
The Muses sing antiphonally, asking and answering one another,
About trials of mankind, and immortal gifts for the gods’ lovers.

The Hours and Graces dance hand-in-hand to bright Apollo,
Whose golden seven-stringed lyre on tiptoe they lightly follow.
From them brilliant bards invoked constant lyrical inspiration,
Immediate genius invention from melodious creative dedication.

The Rhapsodies came from Orpheus, legendary singer of choice;
Calliope’s son still captivates all who hear such a celestial voice.
Music heightens the power of holy word and ritual action, alike;
Cantor, bard, or chorus, a heavily-charged atmosphere do strike.

Integral to the universal language with ritual and love imbued;
Improvisation by which the Real and Eternal may be pursued.
By medium of musical language, subjective/objective intertwine,
In the struggle to reach the ‘wholly other’ and eternally Divine.

We have all heard the supercelestial melodies before in Paradise,
But leaving there and coming here, we have paid a stiff price.
Now in our hearts we can only imagine the Voice of God's speech,
As a nourishing mystical concert, Divine Presence not beyond reach.


I went to see death to find out what was going on,
With the Adversary of Truth, of decay and disruption.
Body torn and soul plagued, riddled by cruel doubts,
I cried and wailed and rent my clothes with loud shouts.

It is a perpetual motion issue--how do good and evil juggle,
The burden of mankind, our universal and eternal struggle?
The appeal of libidinal coexcitation: emotion, pleasure, pain,
Invites invocation of Zurvan, sense of infinite spacetime to gain.

The renascent virgin Kore gives birth to the spirit of the Aeon,
A magical child, winged lion-headed serpent son named Aion.
But she simultaneously gives birth to the great Lie of the mind,
Because of a seed of doubt, personification of a far darker kind.

Tightly locked in old wornout attitudes we continue to suffer;
What we impose on our poor mortal selves is infinitely rougher.
Our own Last Judgements do feelings and thoughts bewilder,
Elementary ideas do not change,” says the spiritual rebuilder.

The end of the Lie restores the original golden condition,
Which can be rectified through constant meditative attrition.
Practical indifference to our own suffering, desire and fear,
Raises us in detachment, even though we may still shed a tear.

All life is suffering; divine intimacy is the cure;
So, love me as I love You, and help me to endure.

(A Creation Myth)


Once upon no time, it was the wish of the universal mastermind,
To instigate the birth of the world, of earthly life and humankind.
So he created sea, dry land, and veiled with stars a sky of cobalt,
Seeking perhaps to love and be loved, his own infinite glory to exalt.

From the First Swirlings and primal “Let there be light!”of Genesis,
To the finishing touches of the Garden of Eden as genetic chrysalis.
The man made of clay would never morally stray, God was sure,
Since when Eve was still a No-Body, they were kept totally pure.

Their minds began forming an idea: trading knowledge for innocence,
Rebelliously, carelessly prefering the burden of contrapuntal sapience.
To taste of forbidden fruit, wildly tempted by a certain sensuous snake,
There could be no denial that certain desires in them began to awake.

Entwining itself around skin as pink as silken fabric, damascene,
Came fork-tongued honeyed words from a wiley beguiler serpentine.
The snake has the uncanny ability with a single eye to hypnotize,
And this encounter epitomized, the entire fate of man did dramatize.

The serpent didn’t do much but broach, then upon the mind encroach;
The lovers refused to believe their single act could bring such reproach.
First the serpent does its best to prevail, then one the other persuades,
And soon the urge is a drive which the whole atmosphere pervades.

For the lure and the savor of sweetest desire, that first pristine taste,
The whole course of evolution was set and utopia utterly laid waste.
But it’s part of God’s unknowable plan and cannot be pure chance,
For he himself rightly equiped mankind with such an enticing lance.

In this legendary case, the fruit of knowledge is just the foretaste,
Of a grand feast or a banquet meal, after which we were all unchaste.
In half the world’s history, this carnal legend is distinctly formative,
And speaks to the sanctity of all things generative and regenerative.

This is our legacy that is the perennial curse of all mortal flesh:
How can we do anything but surrender to desire and enmesh?
Our urge is such that with God and each other we desire to merge,
But the problem is that we need to be holy and pure to truly converge.

How can we reconcile how these primal instincts collide?
When we seek to lovingly multiply, from God we divide.
Can this be anything but a misinterpretation or a bad dream,
Is it true that by our very existence, we continuously blaspheme?

This is certainly like nothing I have ever imagined nor dreamt,
And if this life sentence is the case, I wish to be entirely exempt.
For the flavor of the sweetest of favors heaven is able to secrete,
Has been tainted and tinged with tastes that are so bittersweet.

From the Kundalini serpent, all necessary motions instinctually came,
And brilliantly set each and every cell of the body totally aflame.
The roaring sound of the ocean and resounding bells that gently lilt,
Are all that were heard in that paradise not yet knowing any guilt.

Each resisted the holy Name, and blithely found someone else to blame.
In embarassment covering themselves, the only thing born was shame.
For they never dreamed God would visit them with such chastisement,
Merely for exercising the naturally ripe fruit of their own embodiment.

We are conditioned by myth and religion, and what we believe;
We project and make manifest and thus tend to actually perceive.
They were covered with shame when they were found and beheld,
And too nakedly bore the brunt of righteous anger, unparalleled.

That transparency is the single source of the avenging angel’s gaze,
One who sees through you and whose eyes with fire are set ablaze.
The loss of all innocence and direct contact with divinity we loathe,
Cursing the lasting result of that singular defining and defiling episode.

At the Gates in all directions a gleaming sword flashes and scintillates,
To drive us back to the wandering and exile from paradise that initiates.
Should we behold the guardian of the threshold, that terrible phantasm,
He swiftly executes God’s will with awesome strength, loyal enthusiasm.

Always remember “the first time,” and that everlasting intense ardour,
Could we, the first couple, or anyone since have loved any harder?
That, we are told, is how those who were sexually defiled and beguiled,
Became wanderers in embodiment, from a paradisical garden exiled.


Is what brings joy the best thing to do?
You have a beautiful perfume about you!
In age-old love affairs, the eye is a creative force,
But fulfillment of fantasy is just as strong, of course.
In love we can’t do enough, we can’t get enough;
Remaining composed in a world made of dreams is tough.

Don’t trust your eyes; don’t rely only on your senses,
Until everything is revealed by dropping all pretenses.
For the lure of requitive pursuit in the game of amour,
Neglecting traditions could be a vain spiritual detour.
That actions beget results is surely beyond all certainty,
For we know what we do in life forever echoes in eternity.

If we could just find a way the misted future to behold,
You would see my ethereal image in your arms you enfold.
Come to my house, find me recklessly seductive and gracious,
Make many bold advances, but do not be too audacious.
Taste with me exotic, forbidden fruits, ripe and succulent,
The fertility rights of our adult full-blown embodiment.

My silken gown is billowing, alluring in its airy sheerness,
Inviting you now my body to thin layer-by-layer undress.
The universal passport to a trip around the entire globe,
A ticket to paradise, once we drop all masks and fully disrobe.
A loving receptacle covered in jewels, almost completely nude,
Love’s resurrection is lascivious, perhaps, but never quite lewd.

An oil massage to make us even more slippery, moist and smooth,
Languid murmurings with a gentle voice to calm and soothe.
Float and drift or soar in the heightened atmosphere of romance,
Senses heightened with all the expectant tension of a seance.
You, my love, all pale and purple, please come to me at dusk,
Your ready manhood redolent with sandalwood and musk.

Speaking, sub rosa, only the silent secret language of sweethearts,
I break down your defenses and easily storm your steely ramparts.
You are cordially invited into my innermost sacred temple of jade,
Where you are ardently welcomed by a flooding emotional cascade.
The occult and arcane meaning woven by a bilingual, cunning tongue,
Invariably leaves me overwrought, heart’s ease definitely unstrung.

An ancient tale picked up again, foretold by a star-crossed horoscope,
Only reveals thinly-veiled hints about how in the eternal dark we grope.
Enraptured, unleashed passion hotly welding the bond we forge,
Emergent pulsations encompassing all flooding canyons to engorge.
Greedily stealing kisses, in perpetually fiery feelings we embroil,
Shuddering makes our enlivened kundalini serpents uncoil.

You can travel wide from mountain tops to dew-filled fount,
And drink your fill till drunk, my sweaty muscular mount.
Blissfully enduring wave after wave of throbbing heartfelt shock,
As our physical bodies seek to geometrically interlock.
On the astral plane naked emotions and minds delicately fuse,
Then as One throughout the whole universe we suffuse.

Embracing wildly, cocooned in a Gordion knot of love and lust,
With fiery stab into my secret soft center your wand is thrust.
This coup de gras is more than a mere instinct or an impulse;
In a suspended moment of pure magic we irresistably convulse.
Surging like sea spum or a bursting supernova combust,
An immediate reminder of our cosmic history as ancient stardust.

With each and every varied act, the myriad joys of night intensify,
And arouse an evergreen desire and deepest yearnings satisfy.
Feelings wake and stir and build into a crescendo ending abrupt,
As in a joint chorus of amorous sighs volcanic energies erupt.
With ambrosia, our holy mingled essence, one another we anoint;
Linger in a timeless place, bathed in warmth of afterglow conjoint.

(An Alchemical Allegory)

The virtue of the initiate’s journey alchemy extols,
It’s universal prescription for finding oneself to lost souls.
VITRIOL is the formula for delving within, so esoteric,
And what we envision there is absolutely mesmeric.

Journey deep within self to find the Philosopher’s Stone hermetic,
The map is already there, its program both spiritual and genetic.
The fact that things mean what they cause is purely elemental,
In the fulfillment of the sacred plan we are divinely instrumental.

#1. The gloomy threshold of death and fated karma is the entry,
A wizened old man who is the guardian of secrets is the sentry.
With both him and ourselves to enter therein we must wrestle,
To gain admission to the cavernous heart of transformative vessel.

#2. The next test is of the intrinsic balance of our dynamic energies,
Activating both imagination and slow meditative process of synergies.
Through active imagination that which was hidden becomes emergent,
And ancient primal instincts are transformed into divinity resurgent.

#3. The vitality of unleashed instincts and desires are the dragon,
Fiery unresolved energies must be contained in that fragile flagon.
Nothing can be lost as the pressure builds from that containment,
But be careful of hubris, and premature claims to enlightenment.

#4. Claiming that false spiritual pride makes us lionlike, bestial,
While true devotion centers us and only yields that which is celestial.
But we must journey beyond that immaturity to be truly connective,
And actively pursue an inner practice to become even more reflective.

#5. The inner citadel is entered again through a second portal, 
On the journey toward that which would make us truly immortal.
The black crow of unconsciousness the whole scene would darken,
But we can soar like the white eagle and to spirit’s voice hearken.

#6. In the same tub, the dual polarities, Sun and Moon bathing,
Adam and Madam purify their essence, at one another blissfully gazing.
When these forces are perfectly equal, the moon becomes a chalice,
In the sequel, the sun is a magical wand which creates a living palace.

#7. Condense all for purification and keep in crystal flask or phial,
The purification of distilling fire burns away all the dross of denial.
The alchemical truth of the flask within the furnance may seem unreal,
But the mystical insemination of this allegory is obvious and ideal.

#8. The third portal leads directly to the entrace of the inner court, 
This octave of the quest, just another aspect of the alchemical retort.
For manifesting it, plant a live tree with dangling roots in the citadel,
Mix well the essence of pure planetary forces in the hot retort vial.

#9. Can we swallow the bitter pill and earthy taste of the reality of salt,
Which when combined with sulphur and mercury are a healing gestalt?
The poison is the cure; discernment is the panacea of spiritual nectar,
And that bitter yearning allows us to continue on our spiritual vector.

#10. Awareness of spirit, soul, and body forms an estate sacramental,
Now we can find sanctuary in the temple of the transcendental.
Too long engaged only in the lower planes the initiate has tarried.
Now with the divine elements, Sun and Moon, we are intermarried.

#11. An orb topped with a cross is a sign of the anagram VITRIOL,
Which means we’ve plumbed the depths and found the Crown of All.
Discovered the clear light of the natural state, and found clarity,
And escaped constraints of spacetime through a cosmic singularity.

#12. Sun and Moon correctly oriented in heaven is a sign of the Grail,
This is Cosmic Illumination which we quest for and to find cannot fail.
By visiting the interior of the earth we’ve found the Stone occult,
Finding the Crown of Creation, our home, goal of the quest is the result.

* illustration *

The Mountain of the Philosophers is an interpretation of the initiate’s journey based on an enigmatic engraving found in an old occult manuscript entitled Secret Symbols of the Rosicrucians, from the 16th and 17th centuries.  It was used to conceal and reveal the unique hermetic, alchemical and spiritual meaning of symbols and philosophical principles


Was it an apple that Eve offered Adam within reach,
Or was it the molten fragrance of the deep cleft peach?
Such rich juices flowed from that first spiritual insemination;
Adam eating this fruit initiated man’s perpetual mystification.
To taste once more the singular delight of that divine nectar,
We may surrender, following the fine line of our spirit’s vector.

Each lifeform in its own way loyally mates by species and genus,
According to the inescapable mandate of dominatrix goddess Venus.
An unspoken third party is the mounting drive of sexual tension,
Even though it may grow concealed silently with barely a mention.
Foreplay is induction of a deep trance like that of oracle or chanter,
In this mystical state, I receive the gift of my spiritual seed implanter.

Becoming more bold in love’s flush, I invite you to indulge your fetish,
I make myself blush, for in the heat of rapture I am quite coquettish.
Just look at yourself, playing my leading role as the sun-faced beamer,
You gaze longingly at me who cast herself as the moon-faced dreamer.
Let’s come together and marry souls, let us merge our parts so tender,
Casting fate to the wind in abandonment, delight of carnal splendor.

Our vocalizations of enjoyment rise in a single melodious voice,
Embodying mystical hermaphrodite, Two-as-One ecstatically rejoice.
Each empathically pacing the other’s more rapid heavy breathing,
And moving in timed synchronization, sinuous and gently writhing.
Keeping the beat, the rising heat of passion forging a deep connection,
Raising the dead, like Solomon with the plans for temple erection.

All the gifts of bejeweled body and soul that upon my love I lavish,
Are all repaid in full when he in turn my deepest soul will ravish.
An imaginatively vast repertoire of sheer delights, body parts so agile,
Cannot but satisfy the naked soul and the yearning spirit not so fragile.
With the gift of chemistry, each to the other outrageously attractive,
How could we be anything less than interrelationally co-active?

We love bathing in the aura of energies electromagnetic and galvanic,
Wallowing in the glistening sweat of glowing flesh, raw and organic.
Fountain of Youth, the natural source of the bath of spiritual renewal,
Is the pure Holy Water; with the Crown of love each other we bejewel.
Each of us is the plaything of the other and object of our lover’s ardor,
The give and take of lively reciprocation helps us drive even harder.

Not without reason is riding on top named the position superior,
It’s all good, even when he tries to unhorse my hardridden posterior.
Driven to heights of ecstasy, enflammed like a wild runaway stallion,
Vigorously infusing energy in me like charging a magical medallion.
My enamorato, naturally endowed with a marvellous sculpted phallus,
Loves to busy himself drinking sweet liquids from a consecrated chalice.

Through the tantric arts, the act of love can be infinitely embellished,
And by perceptual subtlety with great delight thoroughly relished.
The inner dimension of love--heart, soul and consciousness expander,
Helps us endure more joy, withstanding that heat like the Salamander.
Sweet surrender eventually comes in an eternal instant climactic,
The counterpoint for which our mutual enjoyment is most emphatic.

Lingering for awhile now in silken elegance, luxurious and Grecian,
Massaging each other lightly with a thick rich opalescent secretion.
Flickering flames in the glimmer and gleam of a hundred tapers,
Whispering redolence and rememberance wafted by fragrant vapors.
In sparkling light, a tell-tale glow of satisfaction is so totally apparent,
We each are now revealed to the other, as complete and transparent.

A loving union interdependent, with respect and mutual devotion,
Letting go when each willingly answers the call of spiritual liberation.
Embracing the illumination of the universe that expands so vastly,
Makes precious the security of one who loves so freely and steadfastly.
Souls rise up in the air, higher and higher, together light as a feather,
Discovering new planes to reach and dwell in eternity always together.



Herein lies a challenge to those things we all deeply believe,
There are things only the dark-adapted eye can acutely perceive.
Succumbing to blood lust creates a most arcane powerful force,
Which lies sleeping, long buried within in a deep unknown source.
Could a substitute sacrificial victim be the prescribed counterplot,
To finally protect yourself, unknoting fierce love for children unbegot?

This most concrete action we would very willingly abhor,
It is certainly not for the sqeemish, this blunt end metaphor.
It is both a prayer and sacrifice to placate gods abysmal,
Assuages lust for burnt offerings or bloodly baptismal.
In modern times, the victimized victimizer appears as a rogue,
Since this literal kind of human sacrifice is no longer in vogue.

This endarkenment lies at the far end of the spiritual spectrum,
And draws its energy and fury from the legions of pandaemonium.
Once enacted it creates and perpetuates irresistable force habitual,
Which is the source and goal of a most ancient bloodletting ritual.
It can manifest full-blown and apparent in anyone, so blatant,
While at the same time it is that which within us all is latent.

The shadow always urges this final transgression to transact,
The physical abuses of violence and war we once again re-enact.
Memory of an old assault makes vile and angry emotions bestir,
Which no other passion, channel, or fulfillment can ever deter.
At the dynamic fury of this ferocity the weak will only tremble,
And assume the demeanor that ancient human sacrifices resemble.

Can even self-sacrifice contain these mightiest urges bestial,
Which in their transcendental form create connections celestial?
In truth, they spring from our collective common heritage,
Your ancient blood calls you to enact the old familial lineage.
Those very traits which make you tall and strong and striking,
Come from the wrathful energy of the wild berserker Viking.

Indistinguishable from religion’s history, full measure of devotion,
Sacrifice channelled the passion of manhood’s brutal emotion.
Self-sacrifice is an addiction for this particular intoxication,
A recurrent, unresolved yearning for renewed sanctification.
An impulse that started off as bold, reactionary, and curious,
Consecrated in a dedicated warrior and protector is not injurious.

It’s OK to let that drive arise and that anticipation savor,
As knight of the garter, sacrificial martyr, for a daemonic favor.
Calm that urge which rudely intrudes, rends and tears you up inside,
In utter futility within yourself you try but you cannot hide.
So, should you “lose it,” then do it in the name of something,
Channel that drive and offer to the gods a fine burnt offering.

On an adreneline-driven vision quest still searching for an answer,
Looking for signs in the netherworld like an ancient necromancer.
Going straight for the jugular makes even the stalwart shiver,
The merely valiant and valorous recoil in a cowardly quiver.
Left bottled up these sensations can only boil over and intensify,
They will inevitably themselves somehow ultimately satisfy.

The archetypal shaman enters it aright, so it not be done vainly;
Done without understanding it can only be conducted profanely.
Is it the fullness of that emptiness that keeps you spellbound,
Fascinated and mesmerized by that living bloody compound?
That linking with the spirit world and fateful action society inhibits,
Not just the apparent violence so-called normal revulsion prohibits.

But in a not-so-bygone era, it was an act supremely priestly,
Reddening with blood was never considered brutal nor beastly.
In natural sites of peculiar sanctity mankind has sought immersion,
Spring’s sacrifice insured fertility freeing us from introversion.
In olden times, all sin and guilt informed the scapegoat’s transfixion,
Taking the blood of goats and calves conferred the highest benediction.

Thought so perverse that most it would only frighten,
But the twisted primal urge can also readily enlighten.
All who fight the good fight each and every day and knightly,
Have earned respite from that awful vigilant duty done rightly.
Boiling emotions dark and gritty, awash in a bloody ablution,
Every year need be relived to find craved morbid re-solution.

If you can make that serious sacrifice, I can too and I implore,
That you, yourself the wounded soul of mankind help restore.
The blood offering of life maintains order in the universe,
Giving that gift insures the collective debt is reimbursed.
The pressure of that emptiness means living stoic and austerely,
Lips, eyes, and tongue constantly giving, yielding most sincerely.

If you need a substitute victim, I’ll be your sacrificial lamb,
A sacrificial banquet to quell the depraved lust of ancient man.
Senses keen with a palpable sense of heightened victory and valor,
Please forgive my uneasiness and slightly frightened pallor.
A million ancestors watch your mock sacrificial food despoiled,
While you are roasting on the grill of torrid passion, embroiled.

The sorrow and sickness unto death of your soul I would cure,
And gladly set free my ready, willing, and able paramour.
Moving into a darker place in an unbridled embrace we crush,
Hidden deep within a living cave that wellspring’s uprush.
A genuine human sacrifice, marked with mendi, made of henna,
With sacred offerings from smokey eyes, dark as burnt sienna.

If I would die for you, would you die for me?
Here I am naively offering myself as quarry, passively.
How many ways you can “kill” me!  I’ll be neatly gored,
Blood sacrifice of the bearer of life offered to a sacred sword.
Yielding, pierced and run right through with a sturdy rapier,
Assassinated by a stalwart, trustworthy jade warrior.

Burn, bury, smother, slaughter, over a precipice we hurl,
Never knowing what acts of contrition relinquishing will unfurl.
Two human victims immolated on a passionate flaming pyre,
Torn from ordinary consciousness, totally consummed by torrid fire.
Though in today’s world it may be thought an experiential rarity,
To ancient shamanic rites it rightly bears a striking similarity.

Slaughtered with love as though I had been forcefully slain,
Murdured softly, I remain, and a moment of peace you obtain.
The spasmodic movement of briefest ecstasy to peace offering,
This is peace, isn’t it?”; dead calm which assuages all suffering.
That fabled ambrosia drips down to the lowest depths of hell,
A dew-drop elixer that makes us dream, forget, or remember well.

Since you, my love, must have pain and death to have life,
I’ll be your gateway--magical and therapeutic sacrificial wife.
Even though you may have forfeited all your children to the knife,
Through understanding deeper meaning comes the end of strife.
So let me now just hold you gently, wild one, slender and beatific,
For both of us have surely been slain and rendered soporific.

The universal phenomenon by which we acknowledge dependence,
Can be found in man, myth and magic and frees us of our sentence.
Tangible evidence of the symbolic nature of ancient religion,
Frees us from banal conformity to praise an everlasting legion.
Sacrifice is that mysterious point of contact between worlds apart,
Killed and consummed on the altar for gods' nourishment, our heart.

Dependence on the supernaturals insures continued benevolence,
Antidote to acting out inappropriate aggression and violence.
Seriously expressing our in-tensions, acknowledging proper position,
Constantly reminds us of unseen powers, our duty and mission.
In a sacrificial system, that which has been made holy, consecrated,
Is, at once, the ultimate gift--that devotion the act of atonement.

It drives away evil cravings, spiritual rather than physical,
Translated now from vision into live performance ritual.
You and the Other are one; two aspects of the same life,
Out of death springs new spiritual life, to ease emotional strife.
Depression, rage, and violence will find their own honorable cure,
Protecting and serving keeping us sheltered from carnage and secure.

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