The talons
of inner voiced self criticisms
sit poised on accountability's perch.
Wide eyes connect
with every oncoming
dart directed casting eye,
readiness meets up with
every curious mind's revving.
Personage responds to every frisk
of dialogue for motives.
Yet smoldering lives
behind congeniality's three veil juggle.
For centuries of repetitious banishment
have calloused over our souls.
The inner fire is tended
but the bruising of existence
is a constant cloudbank.
Misery has many campsites
in a wanderer's fix for stability.
In a way, almost any snake in alarm
will stealthily recoil
behind the face it is revealing.
But what is a ‘self’
if in a sea of oneness?
Has each grain of beach sand,
as a solemn oath from the mountain,
respectfully submitted
to the grinding down?
Is the ocean of oneness
that much of a dream
that never ends,
in which each grain is
an intimate morsel of surrender?
Is each grain
becoming the rock once again
but without the claim,
but as a fluid mountain of presence
without the need for form as majesty?
What, is there no need for
solidification's evidential enterprise?
How empty do we have to become,
to give up the rhetoric and posture,
to become a slip of the tongue
as a lifetime,
to be a stillborn twinkle
in someone's eye
and have merited
safe oneness passage?
Where have we signed on
and did not have knowing
do the work?
I want to tell everyone,
we are the conveyor belt
of an illusory self propulsion,
we are the metaphor
of space/time gravy,
poured outwardly as the masses,
we are the dignity
of rigid indifference melting down,
we are the hysteria
of right-answer immediacy
without soul depth’s migratory means,
we are the tauntings from aloneness
hawking an audience of like kind,
we are the rosary beads
who undress
with each prayerful fondling,
we are the life cycle of all skin
with insights beyond our stay,
we are the consumptive passion
that leaves no evidence in its play,
we are the light beings
who travel far by self-inclusion,
we are the invisible flame
without the need for any oxygen,
self-promised our votive rights.
Yet the wee grains
from mountain masses
to the beach do dissolve!
When is dust almost all electrical
and reflect more than
the auric dance of subtlety
rather than the populous of confetti
that celebrates as fanfare in the wind?
For yet still,
in the confluence of oneness,
we are the feathers of forever,
( across the brow of form ) . . .
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