Stillness is not the absence of noise
Though it is likely to lessen
Your tolerance of and for it
On the reaches of such shores
Are the Winds and Rhythms
Of another Order
They make no claims
And seek not for attention
Yet they call to us
With a familiarity strange and inviting
Quietness is an Answer
But unlike the expected in every way
It recognizes no demands
Knowing the insincerity behind them all
'When, where, and how?' cannot alter
The unrelenting Originality
Whose Presence precedes every interrogation
It Is Answer to them all
Complete and of a Thoroughness
That honors and beholds
The very Reality in which all things are
But what of the 'chasm and schism?'
The 'talk of the town?'
And the 'object of our desiring?'
What of it...
In the wee small hours
Of a morning Borrowed from the unlimited reaches
Of Absolute Thought,
I contemplate a condition
And jealously guard a position
I have given name to...
Such is the plight of God's Son
Who fumbles in the ditches
Of the wasteland of imagination.
Thoughtlessness given form,
Hierarchal value, and agreement
Does not constitute meaning
Though within the brevity
And confusion of a dream
It appears as convenient substitute
But only momentarily and not really...
And even in the narrowness
And darkness of my
falseness
My excitement and misplaced enthusiasm
Revealed a knowing
Of the graveness of my error
The cycles of this stagnant
And barren ritual,
The seconds, minutes, hours,
Days, weeks, years, and lives
All mark only the resistance
To a simple lesson
Easily learned and gone beyond...
The reluctance I introduced
Into the perfection of Love's Continuance
Changed nothing and outlined
Only a vain and futile interval
Occupied by wisps of wishes
Bereft of reason and content
I stand alone
In stoic and solemn review
Of a graphic misunderstanding
All the while surrounded
By a Quiet and Softness
I cannot account for nor explain...
Even as my 'explanation' howls
In defense of it's grandiose accomplishment...
And I am both squeamish
And embarrassed in my apparent betrothal
To it's pathetic offering...
In my hesitation
Is the entirety of my discomfort
And the unnecessary detainment
Of a misperception
Embraced by a gentle and total Alternative
So complete and compelling...
I have no more to lose
And have accounted
For the loss of my Self
For such is the story
In which I lament
Yet it is only this
I fear to lose
And 'this', the lack, loss, and pain
Upon which I drape
The tattered remains
Of a thin and woefully
Inadequate disguise...
I cannot hold even the dust
Of my demise
For this dust seeks even greater dissolution
Fleeing from the clutches
Of my torment and now escaping
Into the folds of Everywhere and Everything...
What is a man to do?
And with what can he make do
Having realized the unsubstantiality
Of his own dilemma?
The swiftness of the Answer
Is immediate having Always been
And awaiting only the instant
Of a sincere question, the Invitation,
Upon which Love returns to it's Self
And is this but only the Remembrance
Of That which is Always and in All Ways...
Justice is swift simply because It Just Is
And therefore requires no time at all
And it is the Justice of God's Love
That fulfills all things in time
By releasing them from time itself...
And Now... Is time Remembered
