Flitting and flickering, skipping 'cross reels of form,
this thought's not a thought to be trifled or torn;
'tis the thought from which all others are born.
It is, complete, with neither mercy nor scorn.

Wholeness and vastness, sinking down the abyss,
this thought's not a thought to rejoice for, nor miss;
'tis the thought of imminence -- of 'blivion's kiss!
It is, unending, with neither sorrow nor bliss.

Chaotic and entropic, consuming all in its wake,
this thought's not a thought to leave alone, nor take;
'tis the thought under which all minds will break!
It is, ever-flowing, with nothing at stake.

I came upon a river,
wide as the years spent to find it.

I took off my shoes,
to rest down beside it.

And as I stopped to think of  a way
to travel across these waters, some day,

my hair turned grey --
my flesh to dust.

And the river swept me away.

I became the boundless beauty
of water flowing free;

from high atop the mountain peak,
to the broad expanse of open sea.

I looked to my sides,
and what did I see?

I found myself, just as before,
already standing on the other shore.

Each separate reflections
of altered deceptions;

like all intersections
of other-than-present's,

every point will yield
to a forward direction.

Neither had seen a thing
like this in their lives;

a single soul's creation
outside the bound'ries of "mine."

But each knows the riddle
to catch the next dawn:

Think, eat, breathe, pause.
Drink, sleep, breathe, pause.

Though they hit play on the day,
could they tell me how it ends?

While standing alone in a field somewhere,
as silence fills the air,

silently guessing the words I'll say,
until my thoughts decay:

These flowers have powers to heal and bless;
there's monsters in this flesh.

How long must I find myself all alone,
turning my thoughts to stone?

Yet still I must question all that's been said;
nothing's outside my head.

So, I'll stand alone in a field somewhere,
forgetting how to care.

The path, it is crooked;
and all that I look at
is bent and skewed on review.

The path, it is broken;
and all that is spoken
are lies based on truths I once knew.

The path, it is vacant;
and all that is sacred
wouldn't do to move the fool.

The thin veil before
the form of forms falls away
is nothing, if not a negative thought,
lesser than even the grave.

Could investigation of this situation,
yield anything not known?

Or would observation of this reservation
reveal the specters dancing below?

The sharpest intellect
cannot pierce the screen;
the fabric remains
but a hair's breadth away.

To pursue
brings endless folly;
to remain
brings more of the same.

You've been atop
the highest pole.
You've stood tip-toed,
and stretched.

But can you return
to the modern world
and still maintain
your breath?

Fraudulent faces,
with decadent cases,
know not which path to choose.

Clever replies,
and the feelings they hide,
only work to conceal truths.

The window is open,
for the door, it is broken,
and our secrets all run loose.

The sky, it is burning,
And the world, it keeps turning,
as neither side calls the truce.

Keeping in time,
with mirrors and confines
confuses the rinds for juice.