05 July 2014

Two Hundred and Forty-Seven


You are the singularity, nothing more, nothing less.
Your entire existence is, in the final analysis, but a means
To scrutinize, to explore, to feel, just how alone you truly are.

* * * *
All histories are really nothing more than selected snapshots of perception
Permeated by the unknowable awareness of the seamless indivisibility.

* * * *
Every destiny happens of its own mysterious accord.
All are written in the sands of imagination.
Some stay awhile, maybe longer.
Some slip into oblivion,
Never to be seen
Or heard from again.
C’est la vie and so it goes.

* * * *
Your deity may be great to you,
But to a fair number of the rest of us,
It is nothing more than another fabricated idol
To which only limited vision can succumb.

* * * *
You have been every particle, every form
Earth, water, air and fire have ever concocted.
Imagine it so … You are the Eternal One.

* * * *
Every moment, within and without,
Is yoga, union, unicity, fusion, samadhi,
If you are giving it close attention.

* * * *
Before the word, there was nothing.
During the word, there is nothing.
And after the word, there will be nothing.
All sounds are but vibrations in any given mind.

* * * *
All the pronouns of a separative flavor,
All the I’s, you’s, he’s, she’s, they’s, it’s, even we’s,
Do not in the most ultimate sense for any individual truly make.