Oh those who have been consuming the fruit
Of life while neglecting the deeper root,
This is like the false dawn that captures one’s
vision leading one to believe the sun
is close to rising when this is not so.
We have become immersed in games of no
Worth where we dream of scoring winning goals
And forget truths about losing our souls.
Like children, we chase after bubbles that
Glitter but elude our grasp or burst flat
With emptiness when caressed by our touch.
Soon we will lie down at death’s door with such
Regret, sensing that we’ve been chasing wind
As we leave the world behind and begin
The real life … knowing we have not prepared
For what may come … but spent our time ensnared
With worldly affairs made of vanity.
We carouse markets of inanity
And insanity, squandering our life’s
Potential while playing the ego’s fife.
The world is a hydra that must be fed;
Yet, no matter how much we give each head
What it desires, there are still further cries
Insisting on more … unsatisfied sighs
Like a greedy, rich fool who prays to God
To increase wealth and does not find this odd.
Remember Pharaoh whose claims were so bold
or Karun whose heart was obsessed with gold.
History is elusive, like blowing
Sand that buries memories of knowing.
The world is a prostitute who is dressed
With allure to trigger the body’s quest
To embrace the attractions which clothes hide
If we will just throw discretion aside.
Or, perhaps we will be seduced by lust for
Worldly glory to be found in the store
Of rich and powerful sultans or kings
Hypnotized by the illusion of things
Where banners of fortune change with the wind
Hoisted on ropes woven from finest sin.
The temptations of this life are the threads
Through which a worldly kind of spider spreads
Sticky filaments on the path that trap
Heedless humans and suck from them the sap
Of purpose and leave their carcass to rot
On flimsy strings of desire that have brought
Them each to an unfashionable end
Where they’ll have nothing of value to send
On to offer the Master with the broom
Who’s ready to sweep corpses from the room.
All of the things that we have sought and thought
Are creations of the Divine and not
Our own. God made the atoms that rebelled
And , then, to the truth would become impelled.
From God come stories of: sin, contrition,
Retribution owed, and the condition
Of forgiveness. God is the seeker, way
And knowledge masked by the struggle of clay.
The triumph that you believe to be your
Arrival is naught but God at God’s Door.
We’re but tain on a mirror from which we
Are able to reflect Divinity.
So, lost atoms, may we gain the wisdom
To unite with the light of God's prism.
No comments:
Post a Comment