Open

Harbinger of mercy; grace not my path
That I would live in truth, without measure
Divested of deceit, unveiled in knowing

Harbinger of mercy, steadfastly refrain
That I should know, that which is naked and raw
Pain as pain, joy unbound

Harbinger of mercy, stay fast thy hand
That I might accept, all things untouched
Multiplicity as stolid singularity

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Still Beating

The first cut, barely felt
A cruel word, in anger
Still beating

Scar tissue doesn’t hurt, much
Love and life goes on
Still beating

The crack, not so deep
Indifference, unknowing
Still beating

Shattered, beyond repair
The illusion, the heart
Still beating

Between

 

 

Between where I am and where I wish to be


Is the measure of all stress


Between what I have and what I want


Is just a reason to impress

 

Between who I am and yet strive to be


Is the measure of this lie


Between what has been and is yet to come


Is a story into which we buy

 

Between that moment and the one not born


Is a world, stunning and free from strife


So I will sit and reengage


This mystery we call life

 

 

I Am

“I” am but a thought,
a loosely stitched patchwork of memories.
Frayed and gapped,
An illusion of my doing, the apparent sum of me.

Present to the world,
this gossamer veil of lesser truths.
Molded and shaped,
for the benefit of other eyes.

Tattered and worn,
threadbare, light cannot be shadowed.
From sleep filled eyes,
awake, now into the simple dawn I go.

Duality

 

 

Prescience, sensed, something seems

Held out of reach, patiently

Softest mist on the fringe of dreams

 

Whisper softly, again I may know

Days long gone, in silent groves

Lost between sky and earth below

 

Fragile touch, fear not, as I became

Apart, where once but one laughed

Heard or spoken, one and the same

 

 

All In One

 

 

There never was alone at all

In singular awareness bound

No you, me, or really anything

Not a void or abyss to be found

 

A flower is a flower and always was

Just as sunsets fill our hearts

No you, me, or really anything

In awareness and never apart

 

Original nature still clear and pure

As it was long before the fall

No you, me, or really anything

In Great Perfection, the essence of all

 

Love Is

Love is but a heart held high
Unfolded to soar, with joy to fly
In simple things oft overlooked
Not grand designs to be mistook

Joy is but an open book
Another reads with every look
Open and honest in which you write
Love is but a heart in flight