Whence Commeth My Help?

Why torture one’s self with the imagery of failure, letting dark incantations emerge from the shadow of the small, dimly lighted mind and submitting indiscriminately? Soon, one seeks relief in small things: physical pleasures, someone else’s suffering. A vicious cycle implodes, spiraling, black-hole-like. I created this! I can un-do it! I look for the hand of a true helper, because the pit is deep. There is no help in the world, for all suffer the same self-in-folded gloom — except those who have pierced the shadow and seen the light in its heart. Though glorious beacons of sonorous melody, they quietly walk unnoticed in a world of veils and illusion. The walking dead all around are really in the mind’s blinded eye. All are glorious souls, many yet sleeping. I am a sleeping king of my own kingdom! I listen to the true Voice of the One who knows and loves. Gradually, melody replaces malady. Music fills the darkness with Sound.