THE PLEA

Linda K Mottet

THE PLEA
Moment to moment, the soldiers march the linear thread, before dawn
and beyond, into the midnight.
Their eyes cannot see in the thick darkness; but their lips struggle
to form thoughtful word.
They desire to claim a definition right; the perfect label, correct
concept of self, in order to justify their endless marching in the night.
But no one can agree on anything, except their mutual separation.
There is not one who can be believed, because all believe they are
deceived.
Together they weave their filament threads, until they are trapped in
endless renumeration.
Together they wrap their web around the newborn of every generation.
Together they demand the sucklings cleave, in order to continue to
believe, they are the saviors that feed.

Their threads weave the quilted patterns tight, so every newborn
soldier will continue the march in the night.
Together they place their words and all the information on blank
journal pages, to be preserved and guide all the future congregations
in worship of their chosen rage.
Together they paint the illustrations that prove nothing, but their
own belief in the illusion of decay.
Now, they all recite with perfect memorization, and vanish every trace
of the song of Grace.

Still, Harmonic Tones sound and blend and giant trees in gratitude bend.
Into the monotone situation, Invisible Wings unfold; and beckon the
tired soldiers to march into the moonlight and glimpse the Illumination.
Each one is extended the invitation to join in the joyful celebration,
and find rest basking in the Golden Rays of the Great Central Sun:
Where all moments and all linear threads merge into One Holy Instant;
where all marching soldiers, who have ever come, converge in the Eternal.
Invisible Wings Unfold to lift each One and carry them beyond their
mimic expression.
Not one will fail, because they are all destined to succeed.
But, for now, they have forgotten to Whom they direct their plea.