Truth’s
vast remainder
I
share this poem with whomever,
but
be advised – the Truth is too large
to
fit into a poem; to fit inside a human skull,
to
fit within the boundaries of Existence.
Truth
has no opposite, it being spacious
enough
to also house the false
and
this poem, like every other,
is
a watered-down semblance of the Truth,
weak
enough for human consumption.
Whatever teardrop of Reality
a
poem might capture, it must of necessity
exclude
Truth’s vast remainder.
O
child of God, the best any poem might offer
is a novel approach to
Truth’s multifaceted surface.
The
Onlyness of You
I’ve
decided to consciously (and conscientiously)
stop
making decisions, crediting every move instead
to
the Decision Maker. I’ve chosen to stop
choosing,
turning
all that purported hocus pocus
over
to the Reality of my Sole Provider.
In
the meantime, God is kept busy
with
an intricate task – not of liberating me,
but
of revealing the fallacy of all such concepts
and
the error in our cumbrous language
of
such notions as I, me, my and mine,
which
should Realistically be stated
as
We, Us, Ours and Yours
until
We, Us, Ours and Yours become
the
Realization of the Onliness of You.
O
child of God, the wordsmith is having difficulties
with the tools of his
trade.
A
ceaseless interrogation
How
could I ever hope to know the truth of God
when
I don’t know the truth of myself?
My
autobiography is an authentic account
of
a hapless poseur and a pretender.
From
where do these thoughts of mine arise?
Who
peers out from these eyes?
Years
of study and I have learned nothing.
Years
of search and I am unable to locate myself.
I
have naught to show but a lifetime of questions.
All
I’m sure of is that the identity assigned to me
is
not who I am. So who is asking the
questions
and
who is seeking the answers?
O
child of God, your life, or what’s left of it,
has become a
ceaseless interrogation.
Lifetime
costume
I
am foreign to myself; it’s not me –
the
name under which I am registered.
Myself
and I have never been introduced,
as
far as I can remember.
I
stepped onto the wheel
and
it started spinning.
An
old man awakens each morning
and
puts on his lifetime costume.
Quite
a load to carry, heavier each day.
But
I am not the one to bear that weight.
What
am I doing for the rest of my life?
I
never had one. I remember some sort of
dream.
With
no past, how can I have a future?
How
could I have ever existed
if
I will one day cease to exist? Who is it
that
accepts this illusion as Real?
O
child of God, who speaks this way –
inside your head in
the only language you know?
