Made of ocean
So maybe I'm made of ocean,
thinking of myself as an island,
acting as such the probable cause
of much suffering; each plan I float
sinking like a stone into depths
I can only imagine; why in my only home
I experience such loneliness and enislement,
vulnerability in its natural cycle.
Off on the wrong foot, from the first premise,
accepting inadequate investigative tools
to evaluate what is going on,
assuming this loose but faithful
congregation of aggregates constitutes
a place to stand - apart, solid and enduring;
ever looking in the wrong direction.
Maybe I'm made of Infinite Ocean,
no room for me and suffering the sole root
of my imaginary, separate existence.
O child of God, Meher spoke of the Ocean of Love.
Take the plunge and drown.