There are no endings
as long as I have in
my mind.

I always start off so optimistic,
I'm disappointed every time

Starting off expecting nothing
pleasantly surprised

But the voices they keep talking
and the road is hard to find

We start off so high
looking down on all mankind
but as we decend
the
buildings get bigger and bigger
as
reality ascends

There are no endings
as long as I have in my mind

When change it comes
all will never be the same again

It's a rise and a fall
the time of us all

The light starts in the East
Darkness comes in the West

Change is on our finger tips
But gone with the wind

Anxiety sings in apprehensive images
Peace it sings in harmony
The heart it beats so slowly

In the midst forever
In the past forever too

There are no endings
as long as I have in my mind.

the man of light
knows darkness all to well
he possess sacred knowledge
of source
a living experience with in
radiant
and self effulgent

he knows all is permitted
in the acculturated labyrinths of mind
rooted in bias
and incalculable distortions
a hell house ride
constructed of warbled mirrors
Leprechauns gold
an abusement park
of crepuscular
subconscious ethers
and concertized form
on shape shifting sands

creativity gone mad
where time undoes all
its weary inhabitants worn
they are the color of sleep
attaining misguidance
oh the vacuous business
of guided meditations
through azure skies and verdant fields
while the certified uninitiated
whisper
their pale voices against sonorous winds
as if they could lever boulders with broken twigs

stone churches
gothic crosses
temples of man
monoliths to the imaginary
fantastical man god
re-pleat with beard and ****....how quaint

adulations and prostrations
to there man made deity
through myth that binds
group think
other directed
un-individuated individuals
like tribal ants
a world of shattered light
a white knuckle ride
on a spinning mud ball

yet who knows the secret
of the inner light
the illuminated door
the portal through which
Scottie will really beam you up

The man of the mystic light
in a darkened freakish world
is he not an inconvenience
like a mentor to the deaf dumb and blind
he is rarely recognized
almost never believed

the light is not a metaphor
the source that emanates all
although formless and self effulgent
it is not a religion yet all abide with in it

in the dark funnel of conceit
man turns everything into a noun
as if naming is claiming
when what he seeks is beyond
for it is a great dimension of another order

konx om pax
light in extension

Forgotten
By the ones
I remember the most

the rain sighs and weeps
and behind our back
a song of woe she sings.
you touch my lips,
your own fallen agape,
and here—
within the shadows of your palm
into our own kingdom I breathe life.