Saturday, June 19, 2010

It just is.

No one knows the inner splendour of the falling rain being born again in endless cycles on the hot breath of the sun.
Which drop are you? Which cloud is your mother? Which river gave birth to you in your last life?
Senseless questions are symptoms of the fever of intellect.
Wordmongers craft their metaphors with an eye on the latest fashion and a hunger for the bazaar.
Wisdom bordellos flourish in the spiritual Las Vegas.
Surely this whoredom of the spirit is far greater a blackness than honest lust!
Crystal chains are strong as diamonds and not easy to break.. clinging to enlightenments and mistaken mastery, the fake prophets beget a horrific karma for their souls.
Headless heroes sink like stones in forgotten oceans, their myths dissolving like statues of salt.
The world turns, the sun shines, the stars light up the night, the wind blows, trees grow and flowers bloom and fall, with no fanfare or fuss. Any honest eye can see.
It just is.

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