14 May 2014

One Hundred and Twenty-Two


If there is any ultimate meaning and purpose to all this sandbox play,
Then surely it must be to realize that which you truly are.
What would be the point of anything less?

* * * *
Other than one contrived, arbitrary, vain notion or another,
How can there be any separation, between creator and creation?
You are it, and it is you, in each and every form imaginable,
And everything formless, through which all are bent.

* * * *
So many rushing inanely through the mists of time,
Rarely paying attention to the passing moment,
What kind of meaningful existence is that?
Pay attention while you can, Pilgrim,
You will not pass this way again.

* * * *
Individuality is the ruse of consciousness
Inspired by the lie of the senses.
You are the absolute total functioning
Prior to the limited scope of time and apace.

* * * *
Words are only as enduring as there are readers.

* * * *
Glimpses of truth
Between all the worldly enticements
Of countless Sirens calling from every nook and cranny.
Is any splintered Soul every always free?

* * * *
What is now current will someday be considered ancient.
The flesh and bones of that to which we are all so attached
Are already long since dissolved in the wafting sands of time.

* * * *
The ever-changing universe every moment
Appears and disappears before the streaming senses.
What is existence but a few breaths, an assortment of experiences,
A succession of conversations, a collection of minutiae,
And the vaporous perception of relativity.