04 November 2014

Three Hundred and Seventy-Seven

377


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.