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It’s not finished yet, this journey
that began when the first eyes
opened, to a universe unknown.
When the composition
was a mystery.
When colours melded
into one space-less blur.
Before the images resolved,
and a birth shook the world.
Then, its end assured,
it began.
First, the breathed air,
creating oneness,
within and without.
The stream flowed and joined
‘til all subsumed
into the universal consciousness.
The spectrum is endless,
turning the continuum,
everywhere at once,
every-when here.
The probes extended and tasted;
its paradigm revealed
in sense-full tasteful wholeness.
Mobility unstuck itself,
and flickered as it shifted,
catching here, the deep
black depth, here the bright
blinding blandness,
and in between –
The lie bought and lived.
Death sought and given.
And always that awareness,
the pain, the bliss, of breathing.
That always uncertain sureness,
on the surface only crawling,
blind concentrated sprawling.
Caught in that ripple
of here-ness, of now-ness,
of whatever-there-will-be-ness.
The structure of the story,
revealed, flamed breath.
Eyeballing creatures with
hollow hopelessness unneeded.
No desire for enlightenment,
no wish for comprehension.
Just eat and live and sleep it,
the others they can keep it,
but no,
on a need to know basis.
Unacceptable stasis.
It doesn’t end, because,
there’s no beginning either.
A fusion of confusion,
a chaotic sensibility.
As if it emptied of itself.
It only needs a slender thread,
unbroken and unbreakable,
else nothing, void-ness.
Beckoning the flames,
womb warmth, comfort.
Home, there is no succour
for the essential consciousness.
The pleasing reflection,
dull though it is,
hints at perfection,
allows a sneak glimpse,
of the structure that’s not.
So brilliant, so blank,
it’ll never be found,
‘cos it never existed.
There’s nowhere to go and there’s nothing to see.
There’s no time to show and there’s no place to be.
So, having struggled to kick,
to breathe, and to spit.
Now, meek acceptance,
overcomes reluctance,
and begins in truth,
to explore, to carry,
the burden of humanness
across the bleak surface of a world,
that gives a little,
less, the more hope
the more pain.
And out of this splattered pattern,
comes a kind of knowing,
a period to grow.
To continue and resolve.
To solve and understand.
The hopeless, lifeless mess.
We make our own redemption
by flailing against conformity,
until tired, until rest,
until time sleeps and
until the endless void stops.
Then a flash of clarity.
Then a brief welcome,
to what it is we live,
what it is we give.
Of fading faculties.
Of re-submerging.
Of re-emerging.
And always the thin,
the tenuous, the fragile
humble beam unbroken.
The truth never spoken.
Do not expect an ending.
