Lilac Mountain

I am tracing back the marrow of the ancestor, you can let Jesus know.
I am to create.
I am to create.
I am to willingly create the answer, had I found it earlier I wouldn't be standing in this mountain.
Here I hold my breath, heavenly and albeit moon confusion weaves through impossible threads.

My fingers intertwine with the frost.

Darkly and somber I introduce myself inland:
I, the maple son.
The variegated son.
The castaway.
The meadowlark.
The sun.
The nameless.
The forgotten.

The one that got hurt for loving deeply.
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I am not the hollow soul.
Or the wooden body you once thought I were.
Rather the opposite.
I am to spread love in natural ways:
I will sow patience with sorrow.
I will sow the rain with the solace.
I will weave love from the nectar of the river whilst I cry from disappointment
but
holding
back
the flame
that the ancestor
once
held
warmly and firmly and wading was he wading I am wading through him and back to us.
I am diluting the poison-I-believe I can find the truth that will set my
self
free from
lies and free from
fear
or free from
freefalling.

I am his own self.
I am to be loved the same way I do.
I am to create.
I aim to create.

There's more than meets the eye.
I made mistakes through this century but I see you down there, from up here.

To be loved is what I truly aspire.
Clean. Cristalized, in Lilac Mountain.
The maple son is far stronger than you could imagine.
Right.
Try me but find me first. I am eleven miles ahead south.