21 November 2014

Four Hundred


What hope can there possibly be when the bar,
Is set at meaningless, irrational absurdities across the board,
When nature is usurped, ravaged, squandered, in every way in every corner.
When the poppycock of trivia and distraction; carnivals and clowns; power, fame, and fortune;
Become the mainstay, the lifeblood, the prime directive, the raison d'être.

* * * *
The sages say look within,
And when you do, you find zilch, nada, zip, nil.
And so you begin looking everywhere else for something, anything,
Because a still, gaping abyss could not be all there is.
It just has to be more than naught,
But, alas, it is not.

* * * *
What nonsense this need to believe in anyone or anything,
Much less have anyone or anything believe in you.
Here you are: unknown, indefinable, timeless.
Nothing to believe in, nothing to prove,
Once the beingness of awareness
Has reclaimed its primacy.

* * * *
Your quantum nature is indivisibly timeless.
Are you mad for seeing it, or mad for not?

* * * *
What will the dreamtime you now witness
Be in 10 or 100 or 1,000 or 10,000
Or 100,000 or 1,000,000
Or one billion or more years?

* * * *
Why would you need for anybody
To know you, or know of you,
Once you discern your absolute nature?
Vanity is nothing more than imagination gone askew.

* * * *
What will happen to your world, your universe, after you die?
What will happen to everything after you are no longer present to witness it?
Imagine the dissolution of consciousness, let go of everything,
As everything is simultaneously letting go of you.