The Reincarnation of David Asher (Le Fey)

You have known him from what does not rhyme, you have sensed him running down your spine, in the mirror, at the traffic light, tasting dinner when he’s out of sight. There’s a story about a Sephirotic crook, bringing strangers from the fields of blight, what’s a story when he’s walked it through, seen that seraph, and he knows it’s true. There’s a price spun for what’s good and right, from beginning in the world’s insight, now he’s crying because he’s cried before, felt emotion, it’s what love dies for. Spinning circles in the lives of now, creation ever, and the soul knows how. He’s the stranger standing on the street, hearing and seeing what his lives do speak.

Is it receiving of a strange known sin, backwards masking, from Qabalah within, perfect faith in things known of now, from his lineage of who knows how. Is it tidings of a wayward sea, recognition of where he’ll be, placed upon him when he’s terrified, G_D’s own vision, or inward eye. Ten of Rabbi’s that die at night, quite the killing by Hadrian’s sight, David’s seed from before his sin, ten brothers who sold their kin. So it’s reckoned of all of one, generations for the holy one, David Asher knows all he sees, come he striding from a time filled sea. So it’s reckoned, of balance too, not all sadness for joy comes through, evidenced by glowing skies, you will see them and you’ll know of why.

David Asher walks and heals inside, knowing someday soon he’ll finally die, but before he meets the sky and sea, he will fill you with pure belief. Take and move about your room at night, feel and touch the switch that turns the light, did you know, that it would turn out right, don’t you seek the same when you have died. Deep to deep calls out unto the sky’s, birth of lineage into the night, David Asher by three thousand years, sings his fortune for his day is near.

You have known him from what does not rhyme, now you feel him, he’s you inside! – 11.07.2014 – דָּנִיֵּאל

11 thoughts on “The Reincarnation of David Asher (Le Fey)

  1. Lovely prose poetry Daniel. I spent some time with my brother today, and he asked me if I had heard of Kabbalah. I only have a vague knowledge of it, but your post reminded me of section 2 of my poem “Untitled 96 Lines”:

    II: Light-Blue Light Staircase Down

    I used to want to wear the keter-crown
    I used to call heads as I thought of tails
    I used to want to become the Sephiroth
    I used to call Ivory towers King’s castles
    I used to want to be another know-it-all
    I used to call definitions out as up-to-me
    I used to want to fall up and never down
    I used to call it after I had hit the ground


      • You are welcome! I’ll make it easy for you, and just copy/paste the whole poem into this comment, so you don’t have to search for it!

        “Untitled 96 Lines (Part 1 of 2)”
        by Ry Hakari

        I: Beneath Every Canvas Promise

        The ley lines were laid out before time
        and we live them out before our eyes,
        failing to recognize what we have seen
        because we are all born with dey minds
        claiming our expired titles as birthrights
        not knowing our souls are predesigned
        before time and no matter how you try
        you can’t swap your spot’s assigned lot

        II: Light-Blue Light Staircase Down

        I used to want to wear the keter-crown
        I used to call heads as I thought of tails
        I used to want to become the Sephiroth
        I used to call Ivory towers King’s castles
        I used to want to be another know-it-all
        I used to call definitions out as up-to-me
        I used to want to fall up and never down
        I used to call it after I had hit the ground

        III: A Wayward Troubador

        “cannot be” you may cry in unbelief
        unable to see “preassigned: already
        a floating ghost, a soldier of sorts”
        and “hope” hovering over “death”
        and underneath it all, underlined
        is “for life: sign here” signed with
        a name that is not your own, for
        your name is not yours to write

        IV: Minuteman Music

        At the watchtower a beacon’s fire
        polishes off a glossary of modernity
        “The baseborn” rises from the ranks
        tottered until fallen in, harness broken
        Alienation exists with all lands foreign
        but a turn of the tides while drifting
        was forecast for settling preliminaries
        and halcoyn birds as signs of the times

        V: Broken Past, I’ve Broken Past

        I felt inspired, and like I had a fire
        I needed to send across the wires
        I saw the silhouettes of these lines
        Like foreboding shadows cast from
        Light like sentences inside my mind
        Like Edison’s lightbulb, an invention
        Recommissioned with a pull-string
        Ideas burn out before their betters

        VI: Vindicate My Soul-Fire’s Blue Ballad

        The prosaic posturing of
        that mosaic mouthpiece
        Her lips like luring in liss
        instead of out the abyss
        Halcyon of the Morning
        When will you wake up,
        speaking like a Phoenix?
        We’re birds-of-a-feather

        VII: Cold-Blooded Denials

        In a nutshell, ignorance is bliss
        A clean-bill of health, soft-soap
        Crossing bridges as they come
        On the roads to hell paved with
        Good intentions, Mr. Nice Guy
        Cool hand Luke, he’s lukewarm
        Letting those sleeping dogs lie
        as they roll over “playing dead”

        VIII: Prove My Allegory Story Definite: Swan Ein Gedi (Swan Kid Spring)

        Seagulls’ jubilant squawking descends into murmuring
        In a stir of jealous echoes of black swans’ battle songs
        Paradoxical seagulls stereotyped gullible, yet tricksters
        Black swans, as other blackfeathers, foreshadow doom
        Eagle-eyed, seeing birds-of-a-feather not flock together
        Holding the ley line in battle, odds twice his size defied
        For nesting wife, I saw him defend Black Swan Ein Gedi
        Knowing my true color is black, as it absorbs all others

        IX: Three Months Of Mostly Erasing, But Still Retracing Shit That’s Happened

        My rage is a sewerage
        complex of my getting pissed off
        by all the shit-treatment,
        from “good” “Christian” “friends”
        three unfit descriptions
        for people who like to talk crap,
        sling it on good names
        as royalty on porcelain thrones

        X: No Flight-of-Ideas Here to Hear, Agent Double-O Heaven/Double-Agent ‘O Heaven

        Know-it-all who ought to know,
        he don’t know aught
        Corrupted vulture conjecture,
        a mad doctrinarian
        Discernment from the Head,
        with Bond severed
        Got your degrees in bullying,
        and blind-leading

        XI: My Winter Was Once Cancerous & Answerless, But Now She’s A Crown & Talkative

        An ax that daily grinds, the nose to the stone
        Cut off to spite my face, to throw off the trace
        Seeing pink elephants, spiders, some snakes
        The latter of these fled, I escaped the wolves
        Out of education books, no eyes’d ever spied
        Only read instinctively, doggedly til dogeared
        I turned a corner in life, into this Timberwolf’s
        Hunting huntress love, to raise up some pups

        XII: I’ve Paid Penance With This Pen Long Enough (True Story)

        I just flipped webster’s dictionary open randomly
        Picked a random place on the page for inspiration
        And I immediately saw the “crow”, between the
        “crowd” and the “crouton” and I thought “whoa!”
        As the crow flies above the crowd into the sky
        He’s lifting that crouton up, becoming a “croupier”
        But he has “croup”… haha! I hope he coughs…!
        Ah, he did—see his “crown” trampled by the “crowd”?


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