04 November 2014

Three Hundred and Seventy-Seven


Which now can ever crowd out or define another
When all are equally, timelessly here and gone forever.
It is only imagination born of mind that concocts time’s illusion.

* * * *
You poor, hapless, tragic, puny mortals,
You do perpetrate so much suffering upon yourselves.
You might inspire some genuine compassion
If so much of it was not so wanton.

* * * *
You are that source from which all things spring.
You are earth, sun, moon and stars,
And all the space between.
And you are none of them all the while.

* * * *
Peace, tranquility, serenity, harmony, grace.
The many-splendored quality of beingness.

* * * *
Crammed full with so much vain silliness,
And still hungry for more, more, more.
What a force, this insatiable desire.

* * * *
Real gold is something money cannot buy,
No matter how vast or magical the universe.

* * * *
Every life is tinged with many regrets.
No use dwelling on what cannot be rewound.
Learn well, grasp the greater vision, and stream on.

* * * *
“The way of humankind is harsh,” God said wistfully.
“But wasn’t it a fabulous creation?” Mother Nature sighed.

* * * *
Your soul has never known anything but well-being and good fortune.
It is impervious to the vagaries of any form, any existence.
It is pure, immaculate, untainted, innocent,
To the most indivisible, sovereign, absolute degree.