20 June 2014

Two Hundred and Two


The oceans, sometimes deeper than mountains are high,
Are merely a thin ever-moving facade upon a spinning orb of dust,
Which is but a teeny particle in the vast infinity of a universe,
Which is truly nothing more than a speck in your eye.

* * * *
Where were you before sperm and egg
Randomly merged within your mother’s womb?
Who is your mother, who is your father,
Who were all your ancestors
Since life’s beginning,
But the same you that truly is,
That has always been, and will ever be.

* * * *
What is there in this kaleidoscoping mirage
That can possibly sustain the real you
For more than the briefest while?

* * * *
Amazing how many things do not matter
Once you cease giving them attention.

* * * *
The point of endless arrays of zeroes,
One direction or another, is what again?

* * * *
Now you see it, now you don’t.
Where would you be without memory?
And where, pray tell, will you be when it dissolves?

* * * *
Only faces, names, places and details change.
All the stories conceived throughout the human epoch
Are essentially the same narratives, repeated over and over,
In every culture across the world, across all time.

* * * *
No one can aid anyone else in being truly happy or content.
Each is entirely on their own in discerning that which is eternal,
And it is more than a little unlikely that anyone can ever truly manage
The given monkey-mind unperturbed every single moment.