11 October 2014

Three Hundred and Sixty-Five


It is all make-believe, a game of pretend, a lie to which most subscribe.
Every mind wraps around one security blanket or another
To hold fast to its imaginary, sensory reality.
Those whose fate it is to awaken,
See it for what it is,
And in time,
Make their way home.

* * * *
The only differences there might be between angels and demons
Are in the arbitrary choices made of consciousness.
The same awareness is witness to all.

* * * *
There is, indeed, something schizophrenic in all this.
You are the world – it is in you, and you in it.
And there can be every sort of paradox,
Every conceivable irony abiding
In that divergent state.

* * * *
Why would you ever, even for a moment,
Believe yourself any thing other
Than the primal force?
All identity
Is the fabrication of imagination.

* * * *
We are all born of the same source,
Whatever you may wish to call it,
But it is for each, very much alone,
To figure out exactly what that means.

* * * *
Whatever the destiny, the endgame
Is inevitably enforced by the same reaper.
Ain’t nobody gets to either heaven or hell alive,
And the same is to be said for karmic silliness, as well.

* * * *
To be born again into the absoluteness of eternal awareness,
Is the true purpose and meaning, the true reckoning,
The true potential of every breath, every step.