09 September 2013

Seventy-Seven


77


Simply put, you are the indefinable, unfathomable, indivisible source,
Playing out the temporal reverie of one form or another.
Born into an ever-changing creation,
You move this way or that,
Nothing more than a dream of consciousness,
A streaming of imagination’s potential inspired by the given senses.

* * * *
All any philosopher can do is reflect upon a window of time,
And extrapolate that for any given other,
It is ultimately the same.

* * * *
Is a drop its attributes, or is a drop merely a drop?
Is an ocean its attributes, or is an ocean merely an ocean?
What are any distinctions, to whatever scale,
But imaginary fabrications?

* * * *
What is this unfathomable mystery that is called god
By many names, many sounds, many vibrations,
But a cloud of untainted, vibrant awareness,
The nothingness prior to consciousness,
The indivisible, enigmatic upwelling,
The oblivion before all patterns,
The stillness before all time,
The soul of all creation.

* * * *
Tranquility is the natural state of any mind
That has transcended its ceaseless chatter.

* * * *
What is anyone but a body bag of vanity.

* * * *
All come and gone, so quickly come and gone.

* * * *
The capacities and limitations of any given form
Interweave with other given capacities and limitations
Into an immeasurable, synergistic, ever-streaming dreaming.
So beyond imagination as to be utterly, absurdly incomprehensible.