26 December 2014

Four Hundred and Fifty-One


On a small spinning orb in an outback of a brief manifestation,
Vanity arose in a noisy flurry for barely a whimper of the time it imagined real.
Before relatively quickly falling back into the motionlessness of its fundamental quantum nature.
Such is the upshot of all imaginary forays inspired by the play of consciousness
In the very rare moments that it manages to evolve into being.

* * * *
Truth does not require anything of any of its incalculable creations.
It is prior to any given who-what-when-where-why-how.
It is anonymous in its indivisible singularity.

* * * *
There is nothing fixed about anything.
Reality is an anchorless dream, nature a chaotic god.
And from that springs an order so cosmic,
Only wonder can comprehend.

* * * *
Curious how many find it so unfathomable
That every other life form great and small
Is born of the same intelligence as we.

* * * *
Yet another Orwellian caricature.

* * * *
A dream is a dream
No matter how real it seems.
Truth is truth, no matter the delusion.

* * * *
At the heart of awareness,
All the naming means diddly-squat.
What is, is, no matter the sound it is given.

* * * *
Thinking from very large to thinking very small,
Takes some to where they only seldom think at all.

* * * *
You are but a filament of breath.
Feel that wind wafting through your nostrils,
And realize yet again the unequivocal temporality of all things.