07 February 2012

IV

This fleeting mystery is a whimsical kaleidoscope
An eternal, immortal weaving without beginning, without end.
A boundless, indivisible ocean of light and shadow in which all forms dance.
All one can observe of the mystery are the countless manifestations,
Never the dispassionate, unwavering witness beneath.

* * * *
What you call real
Is merely a reflection,
A temporal, dreamy illusion,
An enticing, ever-changing lightshow.
Your true nature is none of it.

* * * *
So many words
You cleave yourself into.

* * * *
All mythos, all sense of time and history,
Is the make-believe of adults.

* * * *
The infinite source of manifestation
Is tasteless and untouchable,
Without sight, sound or smell.
What one perceives is but the mind’s reverie.
The vague, obtuse, ephemeral quality of awareness called intuition
Is as near to understanding as any one can ever come.

* * * *
Be serene, content, cheerfully at ease.
It is your original state, your birthright.
It requires no choice, effort or contention.
No outward manifestation or proof is required.
It is a natural state of awareness, of simple beingness.
A swimmingness in the unconditional, timeless aloneness.

* * * *
Worship martyrs, crosses, statues, crystals, photographs,
Nature, wealth, words and ideas, or whatever your own will manufactures.
Or simply attend nothing but your own momentary absoluteness.
But for the sorrow of continuity in all but the latter,
All dreams pass in the same manner.