Glowing Skelton – Third Universe Dream 17-11-2012

Here are some excerpts from what was a lengthy dreaming sequence.

Against a dark backdrop I see an image of myself. I am superimposed upon a glowing skeleton which has pink, fluorescent blood vessels. It is living. The two images or my normal body and the skeleton pulse back and forth in precedence. I am become death the destroyer of worlds.

In the dream I wonder if this is a harbinger of my own death. It is not it has only symbolic value…

—-

I know that the world of this dream in an intermediate world between life and death.

I am shown three worlds as three circles / spheres and written upon each world in dripping pink lettering are the following:

The world of starving Spirits

The world of the Hungry Ghosts

The world of the in between.

I know in the dream that this current universe is the third manifested universe and to understand the true nature of Bardo and Karma I will need to expand my consciousness so that it can stretch backwards to the times of previous universal manifestations. This will be a part of my training.

——

This from 18th May 2012 was more of a vision and seems related to this so I have appended it here:

I see a scene with four “men” dressed in different pastel-coloured robes breaking through into consciousness. They are “pastel” blue, pink, yellow and white, which are mildly and softly radiant.

They are waiting for me on the beach. Their facial features are not easily discernible. They are the four Lords of Karma, the Lipika Lords.

Margin

a turbulent river

meanders ever towards

the delta of death

trying to forget

all the rocks of reasons

with which it scoured the world

 

in its blind surety

always too busy to think

think, things through

its clever and cunning

brings only cataracts

and sudden sink holes

 

always glossing over

dependent upon

immediacy and desire.

it sees not the margin

at the edge of the page

where the truth is written

 

hens in a coop

they coo, chatter and cluck

as the spirit

silently passes them by;

no knock on the door

which they might hear

 

pecking in the mud

always for more corn

and the winter’s eggs

lie unsullied in the hay

and soon, there is nothing

for them to brood upon

 

in the tranquil margin

the water reeds bow

as the spirit plays his flute

softly amongst them

and the warm wind fades

into the cold of night

 

there in the margin

the ghost, the sprite

an ephemera, even a man

waits for an aeon

for a sensitivity which

never, ever comes

 

a turbulent river

meanders ever towards

the delta of death

trying to forget

all the rocks of reasons

with which it scoured the world