20 September 2014

Three Hundred and Fifty-Three


Believers and atheists, all playing their little game, dancing their little dance.
Pretending to know what they cannot, never have, and never will.
To know you know nothing is the only honest stance.
Make-believe may offer some solace,
But no lie can ever touch what is real and true.

* * * *
The parochial mind is incapable of discerning its Self.
To explore the farthest reaches and beyond,
One cannot be bound by anything.

* * * *
The journey may begin with the first step,
But the pace along the winding trail
Is set by the slowest trekker.

* * * *
This momentary nowness
Is all that is really happening.
The dream is just that … a dream.
Nothing more, nothing less.

* * * *
It is whatever you think it is.
It is not whatever you think it is.

* * * *
More words, ever more words.
More differences, more confusion,
For the witch’s brew to simmer and stew.

* * * *
Depending on the color of your skin,
The depth of your wallet,
Or the witnesses lined up against you,
Probably best never to assume you will get a fair trial.

* * * *
Curious how so many mystics
Across time and space
Give over a portion of their existence
Attempting to help others discern their inherent freedom,
Often inspiring dogmatic absurdities of every hue in their well-meaning wake.