14 May 2014

One Hundred and Twenty-Five


125


Who was the real Jesus?
Everyone has a unique translation,
But no one can ever know the living-breathing man,
Long dead, long gone, nothing more than an idol, a figment in any mind,
As are we all.

* * * *
None of us are forced to participate in this existence.
At any time you can refuse to budge, run away, or off the body.
The martyrdom of carrying on, no matter the price,
Is the final of the great vanities.

* * * *
Vain notions founded on the quicksand of imagination
Should never be confused with the truth of their origin.

* * * *
Privilege only entitles anyone so far.
Irrelevance is the course for all
Lacking gumption and grit.

* * * *
Why argue the obvious?

* * * *
Yack-a-doodle-doo.

* * * *
The dead are at peace.
It is the living who choose
To continue suffering their vanity.

* * * *
Some solutions come quickly, effortlessly.
But sometimes you must ponder for quite awhile
For a given conundrum to wholly decipher its enigma.

* * * *
Plenty of mystical types babbling away these daze.
Now all that needs to happen is for all the mean and nasty people,
Along with all the billions who are just plain oblivious,
To start gazing into their bellybuttons.
Probably not a good idea to hold your breath.