20 September 2013

Eighty-Four


84


It is through the play of consciousness that godness
Witnesses your translation of manifest dreamtime.
The many mythological stories explaining creation
Are simply tales attempting to explain the inexplicable.
How unfortunate so few are interested, much less capable,
Of perceiving beyond the attachment to one identity or another.
What an eternal garden this world might be if idealism was set aside
And wisdom and insight gained sway in this theater of human invention.

* * * *
Today’s heroes, today’s villains,
Will be but food for worms in some tomorrow.
What histories they played out, what memories they inspired,
Are entirely at the whim of those with pen and paper,
And the inexplicable inclination to remember.

* * * *
All attempts to make life more than it is are futile.
One must be simple to discern the simplicity
At the root of all things great and small.

* * * *
All your experience, all your knowledge,
And you ever the unknown all the while.

* * * *
Newborns across the world
Are cast into a swirl of concepts
To which they must subscribe or perish.
In one fashion or another, the choiceless nature
Is carved by the many choices each and every one of us has,
Throughout the dream of time, been called to make.

* * * *
So many of humans seem to wander
From one pleasurable experience to another,
Seeking out newer diversions, more insistent highs,
Gradually becoming satiated by the dawning predictability of all.
What happens to those unique few who see that all experience is born of mind
And, peering through the illusory veil of its manifest inception in time,
Eventually discern the end within every moment’s beginning,
And walk sovereign in the eternal mist of oneness
From which all appearances originate.