The blank stare of the moon,
the paralysis of a mountain’s corpse,
and the beautiful silence of a meadow
laying itself down before me
are the clues as my mind heads
to a point of comprehension,
one at which I am enriched
by the thoughtlessness
of the moment
rather than its meaning.
I follow the aimless stream,
that motion of All,
as it flows along the edges
of my consciousness.
And when the wind calls,
I will heed its beckoning,
its vacant promises,
and devotional Drang.
And when death arrives
with its black, velvet gloves,
it shall break me peacefully
into the thousand pieces
gifted by long-gone stars
held together over a lifetime
by the glutinous illusions
the sun has kneaded
into my days.
Every cycle eventually breaks
after the self-perpetuating oscillations
between the mute void and white noise
have all run their course.
