12 July 2012

Eleven

11


You can only know, you can only witness, your dream.
But realize your version is but one reflection, one resonance, one facet,
Of this infinite, mysterious, ever-kaleidoscoping crest-jewel.
And of its unknown origin, you can only experience
The infinite nothingness at the core within,
And awaken to the clear certainty
That it is really all you.

* * * *
Challenging to stay with the momentary awareness
Without the movement of thought kicking back into overdrive.
The inner and outer chatter is ever an enticement.
Sages talk a great deal of detachment,
Of dying to the world,
But even they can be entranced
By the sensory spin of the given day-to-day.

* * * *
There are really no masters, no disciples,
Only a dream chock-full of dreamers.

* * * *
Always a strange thing
To wake up to another day,
To watch consciousness reboot,
To wander out into the ever-streaming,
Kaleidoscoping, sensory dream.
Will wonder never cease?

* * * *
There is absolutely no evidence of a distinct god.
Hope, faith, conjecture, speculation,
Are born of dread,
Of divisive, dualistic perceptions,
And only encumber the inquiry into the truth within.

* * * *
Who cares who wrote whatever?
What is most important is what was meant,
And what it unravels in the exploration of consciousness,
And the timeless inscrutability of awareness from which it ever emanates.
Besides which, they were, after all, in the greatest sense, all you,
Belied by countless other disguises, as is yours to them.