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The Rockefeller mirror

The Rockefeller: money master, continental King;
The Lord of business politics; of almost everything;
The owner of petroleum; the owner of the bank;
The man we love to loath; the man we’ll never thank.
He wore the finest linens and he drove the finest cars,
He dined out seven nights a week with sheiks and movie stars.
He went to all the meetings with the cream of the Elite,
But his hunger went beyond the need for vegetables or meat.
At night his dreams were haunted by the image of a box:
So heavy that he wondered if it might be filled with rocks.
The box was made of iron with a lid of solid gold,
Engraved with silver symbols that were beautiful and bold.
The box was waiting, nightly, in the deepest realms of sleep:
It was something he desired both to purchase and to keep.
And every night the box would grow in substance and in size
Till, eventually, he did not even want to close his eyes.
He did not tell a doctor, or a child or a friend.
He knew he’d found a special path: a path without an end.
But every path ends somewhere.  He must find this box and buy it.
And not a soul would stop him.  Not a soul would dare to try it.
He went to every shop he knew and asked about the box.
He drew them detailed pictures and they searched through all their stocks.
They showed him boxes great and small, both intricate and plain,
But none of them came near to the box inside his brain.
The CIA were brought on board and, though their arm was long,
They could not bring him satisfaction: every box was wrong.
And finally, one evening, in ruin, by the fire,
He gave up in despair.  There was no one left to hire.
“Sir?” came a voice from beyond the study door.
“Go away!” he bellowed out. “I can’t take any more.”
“But, Sir,” came the voice, “There’s a woman come to see you,
“She says that you’re a prisoner.  She says that she can free you.”
Silence filled the room like a post-atomic blast;
A pure white flash of clarity – and then the moment passed.
His brow was wet with perspiration rising from within.
He cleared his throat and hoarsely called, “You’d better show her in.”
Later, in his king sized bed, he lay awake in thought:
What had he been shown tonight?  What had he been taught?
The message that the woman had delivered was unique;
The kind of message no one on the Earth should know to speak.
But here it was, as clear as a crystal summer sky:
The box was his already, not a thing he had to buy.
The box was the custodian of Truth in purest form,
And as he thought it over he felt strangely safe and warm.
He drifted, nameless, through the realms of Dream towards his prize.
And now he saw it clearly – it shone before his eyes.
“Open!” he commanded boldly. “Yours is mine to see.
“As God is my commander, I am God and you are me.”

But the box did not obey him, for it had its own agenda.
“I cannot show you anything,” it said, “except Surrender.
“Will you cast aside all ideas of who you are?
“Will you release your fortune; give away your favourite car?
“Will you relinquish power in the name of what is true?
“For only then are you equipped to see the REAL you.
“If I showed you what’s to see before the time was right,
“It would burn you to a cinder, for the light of Truth is bright.
“Show me!” he commanded in his mighty lion’s roar.
“There is no path that’s closed to me.  I pass through EVERY door!”
And so the box surrendered, through the simple art of choice.
It had warned him of the risks in a pure and simple voice.
Bolts slid back and hinges creaked.  The lid began to rise,
And the light of Truth, released and free, shone full upon his eyes.
He screamed, and tried to break away from horror and from shame.
He screamed for pity, clemency and someone else to blame.
“But you are God,” replied the box.  “This cross is yours to bear.
“The world is your creation.  It reflects your lack of care.
“Let your actions’ repercussions climb into your heart.
“And if, as God, you choose it, let them blow your soul apart.”
“No!” he screamed.  “I shall not die.  As God I choose to live.”
 “Then Surrender!” boomed the box, “like as water through a sieve.”
“Pass through me and let me filter fear from your field.
“If you want to stay as ONE you’re going to have to yield.”
“No! I can’t!  I’m scared!” he stammered.  “Please don’t make me go.”
He closed his streaming eyes and cried, “I do not wish to know.”
“But I am you,” the box responded.”You are my reflection:
A frequency of light and sound, that’s wandered off direction.
“You are Love’s expression simply waiting to express it.
“You live beneath the fear that has taught you to repress it.
“Let yourself be Truth as the expression of your Being.
“Let yourself be Love – it’s a whole new way of seeing.
And in sudden recognition of the beauty and the grace,
The Rockefeller let the box shine fully on his face.
His heart was open wide in surrender and ascension,
And now he’s brought it back to share in this, the third dimension.
His work is subtle, soft in volume, deep in the Elite.
You won’t see him in the news – you could pass him in the street.
But the voice of Truth is whispering, turning dark to light.
So, though some things seem clear cut, they’re NEVER black and white.
© Simon Welsh Poetry 11th November 2010
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