30 May 2014

One Hundred and Fifty-Two


What are we but portions of quanta playing out a three-dimensional theater,
Immortal at the essential level, yet mortal in whatever form played.
Birth, death and the life between are but an illusory dream.
In the ultimate eternal reality prior to all creation,
You were not, you are not, you care not.

* * * *
Everyone, everything, and all the nothingness
Within, between, beyond, during, before, after, forever and a day,
Is the you that is me, the me that is you.
So simple
As to make anything else meaningless.

* * * *
The awareness is the ever-present witness.
The observer and the observed are indivisibly one.
It is only in imagination that dualistic notion finds lodging.
Consciousness, no matter how profound or creative,
Can never be anything more than imagination.

* * * *
The mind, with all its patterns, is like a clenched fist
Unable to let loose whatever attachments it fosters.

* * * *
We all of the same mystery, the same eternal Soul,
But the character, the personality, the identity,
Wears the cloak of whatever illusory dream
The given nature-nurture has spawned.
Nothing about which to be inflated, really.

* * * *
What you know is in reality of so little consequence
As to be for all practical purpose and meaning, nothing.

* * * *
Some harbor in lies and deceit, others in truth and service.
Following the middle path of the given day is the surest way.

* * * *
The elements ever indivisibly combine, break apart, and re-combine
In their inexplicable, immutable, mysterious, sovereign fashion,
And the given mind follows in whatever meager way it will.