Hunters of the unseen; they have hearts walking iniquity forests while bodies sleep partially silent nights. Nights governed by howling sounds uttering the language of beasts claiming territorial dominion of the dark sky. They are hunters; beings sending forth their souls searching with flaming torches, refuge in the midst of the hideous terrestrial mind. The mind; the wind playing devil’ stirring hand to the tranquil waters covering sorrows of the terrestrial’s heart in the lake of earthly desires, the very mind that has kept terrestrials in the darkest hour of a fatal winter night, though the sun chants light over shinny foreheads of the unseen sky gods, mind created monsters hiding in the empty passages of nothingness cluttering the atmosphere, the great source of the terrestrial’s fear; the unseen. From between the wretched thighs of the non existing dark witch of the unobserved, fear of the unknown was given birth. Words passed mouths from all the corners of earth preaching oblivion to believers of eternal death, slaves to ideas of hell being death’s only aftermath. Throwing their hearts where no thought can reach; they are hunters of the unseen.
Hunters with bodies chained on death raw chairs while souls chase mind to the planet of lucid dreams. Toes tipping silver lining hopes of being set free from the torment of their grumbling hearts of earthly desires; they are hunters. Arrows bow to sharp points made by loud body language yelling truth to lost eyes, eyes deafened by hand gestures speaking antagonizing tongues to silent mouths, ears feeding on last notes of a rhythmic heart pounds. The universe is trembling with despair. Only they can hunt and kill the hopelessness enveloping the terrestrial’s divinity in the cruel claws of the horrid terrestrial made monstrous bird flying hatred and suffering winds through the calm sky, terrestrials breath now the diluted air by the painful wing movements of this flying machine. Light beams emerge in the darkest face of time. Unknown to them is a life with no grin, tears they can only imagine. With spirits playing hide and seek with souls and letting mind observe the godly game, they are hunters.
Follow their souls left grounded when gravity forced their shoes to marry earth, they are not of this world, they are hunters of the unseen with guns cocked by violet liquid flavored lilies to shoot roses and ordain the sun with oily flowers. To catch their prey they speak beauty in different glowing words when they pray giving thanks and honor each day, gratitude be the greatest song enunciated by their still minds. They have mastered the art of being thieves of motion; they still movements, craft statues from mobile bodies carrying static hearts beating only when fright vacuums adrenalin out glands of comfort. Hunters preying on already deceased organisms; only in death is the truth absolute. This side of forever bears only a portion of what might be true, there is but a half truth! Both sides of a story communicate only the duality of everything, darkness is as fundamental as light is. Death is Life. Even God needs Satan. The servants of God need to know about the dark deeds of the Prince of Darkness so to stay intact with their God. The Universal Law of Polarity. With eyes pointing arrows and oblivious to the point of the arrow; they are hunters of the unseen.
Their prey is captured by prayer. God dwells in the word. The word is God. They speak serenity to oscillating winds and still mobility out of space. With shut minds they gaze at skies and see no clouds, clouds hide the sultry sky with deceptions of rainy and partly disastrous weather conditions, clouds change and sky remains the same, they gaze at skies and let lenses caress the moon while pupils kiss the stars, with sight oblivious to the unsatisfied clouds sobbing darkness to wet the land with rain drops of shadowed cries. They have killed mind and became.
Nothing is novel under the sun! They reside on milky points of the unending way and suck energy from elucidated by meteors, chests of feminine galaxies. Hands beyond degrees of 360 ticks revolutionizing time they have been around, observing their childhood enlarging spines of infant experiences to balance their adulthood, which now reads death scripted by daily travails of earthly desires on a black page, the knowledge gathered to wrinkle their old age. They saw all the growth stages. They have always been there, part of terrestrials with bodies miming all that is done by their surroundings, but forgetting not that they are hunters. With frozen minds and boiling spirits, souls are neither cold nor warm, they are still hunters.
Change is inevitable; they cannot name. Knights with hearts rooted beneath horse shoes; they have souls of still allowing their anti-gravity spirits, flight towards the magnet of God, with chests attached to Nirvana’s heart beating melodies of bliss to sing light notes to dark tones of time and stone existences to higher the realms of life. They are STILL hunters. Souls clearing the path for hearts to euphorically walk the land.
THEY ARE HUNTERS OF STILLNESS.
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