29 November 2014

Four Hundred and Twenty


Those who long for mortal immortality live in dread of the shadow of death.
Though many are called, few ever die to time, few live eternally free.
What is called death is merely returning to the quantum womb,
Oblivion’s potential to arise into whatever adventure calls.

* * * *
We are all dust in the wind in some who-knows-when tomorrow.
Worms' meat in some moment, some modern time or another.
It is really just a matter of who is going to bury or burn who,
Assuming, of course, there is even a pound of flesh to find.

* * * *
Those who will not, or cannot abide
By Mother Nature’s rules in whatever niche is offered,
Must necessarily change or perish.

* * * *
It is what it is.
Nothing anyone anywhere has ever said or done,
Is saying or doing, or will ever say or do,
Will ever change it even one iota.

* * * *
By whatever name you may choose to call it,
This essential nature is what you are,
What you have always been,
What you will ever be.

* * * *
To believe awareness
Is attached to any concept or form
Is but vain arrogance born of human limitation.

* * * *
The manifest dream is a grand feast,
And at its source is that which is absolute.
And when you are stuffed to the point of bursting,
Self-discovery is the final desert, the nightcap, so to speak.

* * * *
One’s peace of mind toward fellow human beings
Might well be better served if you gave them the same attention
You would ants aimlessly crisscrossing below, or birds flitting about above.