23 August 2014

Three Hundred and Two


Nobody can save anybody or anything in the grand creation-destruction of it all.
Only the eternal singularity, which we all are, which some call God,
Is prior to all dreams of time, to all birth, to all death.
There is point at all believing any sound laced with concept
Will ever even once touch the ultimate reality, the ultimate truth of it.

* * * *
Through the other you gradually discern your Self,
Until you perhaps fully drink of the grand elixir of singularity.
Absolutely alone within the peace of the inner sanctum,
Irrespective of whatever songs the sirens sing
To entice you into the crashing rocks
Of the tumultuous mind.

* * * *
You are the center of your known universe.

* * * *
Curious that anyone
Truly believes all their believing
Really makes even the tiniest iota of difference
To that which is real and true.

* * * *
Climb the mountain, you are the mountain.
Wander in the valley, you are the valley.
Walk in the forest, you are the forest.
Swim in the sea, you are the sea.
Stroll upon the plain, you are the plain.
You are your world, you are your universe,
And yet through it all, you are none of it, as well.

* * * *
Why would you ever even contemplate,
Much less expect, any other to be like you?
To see or do anything exactly the way you do?
We are all just snowflakes here, of our own device,
Forever alone in our individual shard of the singularity.

* * * *
Despite all assumptions and collusions to the contrary,
Neither your body nor your mind nor your dream
Has ever for one moment been the same.