16 May 2014

One Hundred and Thirty-Five


Stop believing you are this manifest sensory body and all that is imagined,
And where else is there to go, what else is there to do,
What else is there to be,
But what you are, have ever been, will ever be.

* * * *
In a world filled to the brim with me, myself and I,
Who is the me that me’s, the myself that myself’s, the I that I’s?
Without the given vessel, would thus ever be so?
Would thy be anything but that?

* * * *
The highest and mightiest dissolve into the same grave
As quickly as even the lowliest and weakest.
The Reaper differentiates nothing.

* * * *
Life, an endless queue of things yet to do.

* * * *
The price of good is evil.
The price of right is wrong.
The price of wealth is poverty.
The price of pleasure is pain.
The price of white is black.
The price of life is death.

* * * *
This, too, shall be forgotten.

* * * *
Fair: The nicer four-letter F-word.

* * * *
This is all it is, has ever been, will ever be.
All else is vanity, nothing more, nothing less.

* * * *
Would that there were a supreme being that you could slap,
Or at least pull a nose hair as you are sneezed back into hell.

* * * *
What need would dust ever have to rise above the feet that tread upon it.