Thinking always brings everyone to a common level.
Thinking is the communist of mysticism.
It is a pool of common feelings.
Thinking makes one equal to all creatures.
Every atom is regarded the same.
And so thinking unites existence.

The unity of anger is a paradise of redness.
It is a wall that cannot be broken by any means except understanding.
It is the self in its royal attire come to announce personal truth that cannot be shaken, or maybe it can.
Either way one is in doubt concerning one's abilities and shrinks from the strong servants.
For one's reality is that of a fawn, brittle and weak, yet attacked by the world just because it lives.
It is the red eye of the world and it presses down further on it still.
It is a unity in which you can see all - from a jail cell.
It is understood misunderstanding.
It is being stuck in a rut of being.
It is the moksha of being dumbfounded.
It is a hundred martyrs vying for sorrow.

But calling anger a unity necessarily makes the anger leave and the unity come.

Walking through the house
putting my coat on
smoking on the porch alone

The Greatest Holy Leaf
wears me out.

My body sits by
the door of your soul.

A countenance with
no sore.

A woman that
keeps me a boy.

A woman in
sackcloth.

How can I know
the Greatest Holy
Leaf's sorrows?

She was old
at my age.

She lived with
a dry mouth.

And ears burning
by the out-door
winds.

She is tethered
to a glass.

Her eisegesis hidden
from anyone's
ear.

She was queen
of heaven and
earth.

Her face talks
of cool waters.

She is a master
of the heart.

She was eaten
by the raven
of envy.

Her true supernal
eyes betrayed
by a thousand
rulers.

A hundred thousand
scholars reduced
her soul to nothingness.

A myriad sages
clouded her
mind.

Her sword of
wisdom sheathed.

The rule of the self is exalted above
any adherence to any thing/feeling.
Their notions of doubt ruling over existence and
is in the supreme station of reason and power.
It sheds the former existence of yesterday
inasmuch as we are always recreated.
The philosopher's stone which
can conceive of no other thought
except the originality of the self.

It drinks the seven seas as if a drop and
asks, "Is there yet any more?"
No authority save the intimate friend
can find its way here.
Every stranger is betrayed and
its chariot becomes outworn for the rider.

And when they look at themselves
they behold their powerlessness in
the face of every nation, which
simply makes them embark on
the conquest of their own heart.

Every listener is as a bullet to their
enemy.
Every truth is as a fallen warrior
for their Cause.
No wind is sufficient to curtail their
sense of direction.
Every human acknowledged is as a piece
of sand supporting their path.

There is no end to their perturbing of the skies.
The poem is unfinished as the scribe of
their tale is astounded by the
regeneration of their march.

My brain capacity
dwindling to
3  hours of study
per day.

What do I do with
the time off?

Do I sift the internet
for diamonds?

"Only a temporary awareness can know something finite."
~Robert Spira