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Love Letters




Stone for the Mind, Blood Stone (uncommon), Blood Ore.

When it is said that finding the truth can be like trying to get blood from a stone, it is true.

The truth does not come easy.  Ever.

When it comes, you know it is a sign of respect.  Deep respect, aeons old.

It means you are ready to hear it.

The truth does not turn up for a dress-rehearsal.

The wonder of Love and truth and Trust and Hope is no miracle.

It is a constant.  It cannot, therefore, get lost.

Like it cannot be delusional.  Wonder is independent of illusion.

And of Love.

That is by far its greatest strength.

( … and as for weaknesses, don’t underestimate them. They point out your strengths.)


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Love Letters




There were ten green bottles hanging on the wall and now there are five.

That is how it goes when time is concise.

When there are more than five you have to show concern.

You need not actually feel concerned, but you should show it.

How you feel is your business.  What you do about it is mine.

That is no farce, that is authentic.

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Love Letters




Love’s essence, upon being earthed, grounds itself.

Once firmly rooted it spearheads hearts with its message.

It does this in a number of ways.

Love has no limitations when it is naturally anchored


when it chooses to spread its surface tendrils.

Love’s reach is not bound by human rules.

A proper conductor is necessary to earth Love’s essential charge.

Without one, its energy dissipates quickly and is wasted.

A few volts of Love’s power, when correctly channelled,

can work wonders above the ground


below the earth’s surface.

This synchronicity is not a coincidence.

When your bare feet walk the ground under Love’s touchdown

you will sense the message being sent.

When your head registers the identical message, there will be equilibrium.

Love travels best in waves, frequencies


it makes its statement through people.

Where is the Love?  It is here, on earth.  And that is where it should be.

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Love Letters

African Moon



If my heart was a mosaic of today’s predominant sentiments

it would be a mosaic of pain. Patchworked pain.

That does not detract from its beauty. In fact, it adds to it.

It would be a deep red colour, tinged with shadows and shine.

Like a polished blood diamond.

If my heart was a stained glass window in a cathedral

it would depict an array of multicoloured saints carrying Jesus on their shoulders.

Not unlike a casket. Or a hero.

It would have the backdrop of the sunrise behind an apple tree.

That sunrise symbolises freedom.

If my heart was a pure reflection of humanity, humankindness,

it would be a hall of mirrors, not seven years’ bad luck.

Mirror halls will distort your features, but that is not a problem.

The problem is when looking-glasses lie.

That is when they shatter.

What my heart is, it is. At times it has an elastic capacity.

At others it doesn’t.

A full heart beats steadily, slowly, in no rush to rush anyone in Love.

Love’s lore is not unlike that of the ocean.

i.e. it is a secret.

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Love Letters

Red Roses



The quivering of sleek feathers, raven wings unfolding.

Shadows playing catch.

A virgin fire, alight.

Darkness swallows her gasps, massages her heart.

A golden phoenix rises from her flames.

The birth of that moment brings with it new life.

Love germinates, visible in the virgin’s eyes.

The raven has the grace of an angel, the cunning of Capone.

A proclivity for the forbidden.

The virgin is attracted to that.

A virgin and a phoenix share the rise and fall of flight.

They share, too, a totem. That of passion.

A virgin’s passion is her learning.

A phoenix’ passion is her surrender to his lessons.

A golden raven works in the same way.

Where there are fires and virgins and golden sunbirds, there is candle wax, ash.

There is ceremony; ritual. Devotion.

An ambient calm, and trust. Lust.

A phoenix cannot rise without a fire.

A virgin cannot either.

The stroke of a wingtip on bare skin can render a virgin senseless.

A writhing virgin can do the same to a raven.

A phoenix is freed by extreme heat. Plumes of smoke. Smears of ash.

A virgin is freed when the timing is right.

The phoenix rises, carrying her in his talons.

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