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The Madman, "Yes, three days, three centuries, three aeons. Strange they would always weigh and measure. It is always a sundial and a pair of scales."

Thursday, March 26, 2015

(130)

Strange stirring in my head makes me open my eyes,
One last gagged glance at the existence crippled by life.
I’m floating on a cloud just outside my window,
In the far distance ether in shiny strips makes up the horizon-
Seductive invitation to an eternity of Secret Truth,
A place we cannot reach trapped in the confusion of Self.
So I let my eyes slowly shut
And before there’s total darkness,
Before I’ve totally lost myself,
My vision is nothing but a narrow crack,
A microcosm of the welcoming horizon,
Shimmering as if it’s about to vaporize.

Ages have passed
Or maybe a moment froze,
All is one when time sleeps.

Suddenly, something looks around.

Nothing remained of me but dissolved Darkness,
Now, Light weaves itself in intensely fine threads,
Patching up torn consciousness with masterly needlework-
The first seed of Self finding form to begin a fresh cycle of chaos
After an interval of soundless serenity beyond remembrance.

Death is an irony




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