11 October 2014

Three Hundred and Sixty-Two


No mortal frame can be preserved in this ever-changing theater.
It, and the personality to which imagination is so attached,
Must inevitably, as all forms do, dissolve from the stage
On which it has so sincerely, and with such intensity, played.

* * * *
It is the attachment to the body, and all its sensory input,
And the mirage of a kaleidoscoping universe,
That begets all this suffering,
The relentless drama of a worldwide nature.

* * * *
Kill off little self however you will.
The awareness is indifferent
To all manner of fates.

* * * *
Power without accountability,
Without consequence,
Is rarely, if ever,
A balanced equation.

* * * *
Do you swear
To tell the truth, the whole truth,
And nothing but the truth,
So help you god?

* * * *
What an abysmal, arduous thing it is
To daily observe humankind learn so little
From its unrelenting predisposition for muddle.
The ceaseless machinations of horror and corruption
Are spread deeply unto the roots and flowers.

* * * *
So irrevocably connected as to be daily ensnared in absurdity, are we?
Well, do not worry, my fine friend, it is not for that much longer, now is it?

* * * *
If you are seeking to discriminate the truth, you will find it within.
If you are merely looking to reaffirm your sundry delusions,
You will remain bemused by Samsara’s countless veils.