23 November 2014

Four Hundred and Three


Likes and dislikes are always subject to change.
Each of us is endlessly changing and re-arranging the furniture
In the creation-preservation-destruction of all things born of the passionate mind.

* * * *
Who, actually, is your father, your mother, your brother, your sister,
Your friend, your enemy, or anyone or anything else,
Passing before your infinite eye?

* * * *
All memories are but vague, ephemeral perceptions

Of an ever-kaleidoscoping sensory mirage

Born of the mind bound in time.

* * * *
The iceberg is ripping through the hull.
Who will survive to see the dawn?

* * * *
We all live in glass houses.
Curious how few realize it.

* * * *
All flaws are imagined.
Physician, heal thy Self.
Be whole, sovereign, true.

* * * *
How draining it can often be
To daily regurgitate and play out
This imaginary edifice of perception
That has no ultimate reality, whatsoever.

* * * *
How you daily endure all the gibberish
Inanely, insanely spouted from every nook and cranny
Is, in itself, more than a little remarkable.
Detach, Pilgrim, detach.

* * * *
You are but one of a universe chock-full of every sort of pattern
Playing out its programming for as long as the given design abides
Its written-in-the-sand destiny of its transitory slice of time and space.