08 September 2014

Three Hundred and Thirty-Nine


How can the quantum singularity, that which is called god by many names,
Ever truly divide itself into more than endless arrays of kaleidoscoping dreamscapes,
Temporal reflections of light and sound seamlessly cast through every conceivable dimension.
There is no denying, but through the endless permutations of delusion,
That we are all of the same original nature.

* * * *
We all eat and drink and piss and shit through the same alimentary plumbing.
Just because we are monkeys of every color and shape
Does not make us different.

* * * *
You need not believe any of the innumerable labels
With which you have been characterized by yourself or others.
None pertain once you have discerned your true nature,
And the limitations of all sounds given concept.

* * * *
Is this all humanoid evolution can achieve?
Is this as intelligent as we can be?
Is this as good as it gets?
Surely, there must be more to life than this.

* * * *
A perplexing, inexplicable, unfathomable mystery,
Of which you are an inscrutable exponent,
Of which you possess nothing
In so many shapes, sizes, colors and tastes.
Reflections of light, and the unknown in which all are cast.

* * * *
It is not the will of some deity, but your own that plays out its fate
Timelessly witnessed by the quantum dispassion within and without.

* * * *
Any given mind is nothing more than an arbitrary bubble of consciousness.
The only constant is the awareness from which all dreams indivisibly spring.

* * * *
What is this thing called hope? What is it for which so many are always hoping?
More fortune?  More fame?  More power?  More pleasure?  More respect?  More love?
More friends?  More health?  More harmony?  More time?  More this?  More that?
Who is content with the who-what-where-when-why-how they are right now?