Fragment Twelve

Here upon the self, the scriptures, lay within the poetry of the penetrating, sacred psalms of the sword, the cutting of chords:
¹The sword, treat unto it as a delicate feast, symbols of flesh, sigils of bone, write upon the soul writs of blood, sign with viscera, cleaving forth from the mind into the head and guts, make art of it.
It shall serve the self well the first half, betray you thus the latter, eat of flesh and part the soul, bring forth a name, speak of kingdom, tell of one who knows this not, from the lips this truth passes, discern from lies, be half truths, utter them and weight it against the keenness of this blade, which is sharper?
²Upon unity thus approach, the immobile one, the warrior-poet infinite of words but never speaks, the sword always sheathed, yet strikes beyond the veil, cutting deep, death still is found upon his blade. True seeing, truth eyes required, never looking but always seeing, thus seeing-self born of the egg-self, begot through becoming shedding the shell, immobile one sat deep at the center, yet still moving through space and time. Rejoice upon seeing, as subject and realm, build and built cities of swords by which are code and laws, cutting lives and flesh,the selves who dwell here into shapes better fit for the wheel, wordless shaper, keeper of sword-law, give unto the page whet it with blood til it is writ and right, soaked in those words read.
³Thus they come, before the immobile one burning dresses, garments, and shawls. They come crawling on hands and knees, blooded and bleeding, pilgrims weeping at the feet. Spirits of kings and men and dying fools screaming vanish upon the breeze, as smoke trails their only trace. Follow this path all of the selves, thus if marking all the days of killing, upon battles and feasts, whet the blade unto the end day it shall be forever sheathed, keeping the third law of weaponry.
⁴The immobile-one, warrior of stillness, the poem of silence, never knowing that fatigue, bring forth the blade never unsheathed, cutting sleeping holes amidst the eternal battle, regaining strength upon a feast as time stands still before him, alone within solitude entering the waking realm behind doors and four corners.
⁵Thus instinct not reflex as action, but time and miracle in small fraction, resevered here in a moment faster than eyes will to blink. For it is the I, the welfare deciding which warrior come, emerging from the pages of the books left unturned, made will, does the wheel turn. This one begs not for luck, unmoving asks only for the self to serve, thus paving the path that is victory.
⁶Behold, the span, apparent inactivity, thus does love becoming absolute, the birth of god from the womb of the abyss aborted of kindness from this love, yet be folded and folded, folded once more, unfolded ninefold anew, the DragonLord birth from the Hub, making will once more sword to tower turning and turning the Wheel once more.
⁷Look to the sword-true, cutting chains of generations, myth from creation, that which is the enemy, adversary of time, look upon the self the garden exiled, not the place of innocence do these flowers of thorns grow, but these weeds uncut flourish.
⁸Here in a gift, the ancient road, thus is tempered within the third of ways to walk. Hands large enough to wield this sword, it’s length and girth measure to any of these roads ancient, yet be right of stature, one may irritate the sun with merely a twig.
⁹So it be another path, along the nine walking ways, the third a gift, the most ancient of road ways, rightness and stiff of back, along the spine one will step, from the mind, speak with the bladed-tongue, hymns with no words will be sung, and what was and will be undone, forward and back, along the wheel ra racked and shackled to its spokes, until one or the other is broke.