02 June 2014

One Hundred and Seventy-Three


At first a sensory riddle, the grand pattern gradually makes itself apparent.
This is the way all young grasp their newly-minted universe.
And within that kaleidoscoping dreamscape,
Each wanders a pathless path
Very much alone.

* * * *
We are all steadily streaming toward our executioner.
In any of countless guises, the Grim Reaper, the Angel of Death,
Is patiently biding time around one corner or another.

* * * *
From the quantum dust of eternity you take form,
And through the senses a universe is imagined.

* * * *
Awareness streams, ever still.
Consciousness starts, sticks and stops,
And confabulates without end.

* * * *
What will be will be,
And it will all pass as gracefully
As the given mind allows.

* * * *
The critical difference
Between a mouth
And an asshole
Is one end has fangs.
Earthworms must gnash
At a much more leisurely pace.

* * * *
What do you want from life?
This is it, this is all there is, right now.
What else could it possibly be?

* * * *
The true voice is in all great and small.
To discern it, one must merely, with intention,
Observe prior to the passion, the fear, the false identity,
And surrender courageously to the sovereignty of the timeless now.