Does a life not hold sway
to the whims and the ways
of the rhythms of destiny
and the games that it plays?
It does and it will
if the traveler will trust
that the portals and windows
be guarded . .a must.
A sentry to post to be wary and true,
and demand of those coming
to look forward anew
to the bright spot of hope
and the shining bright light
that will save the world inner
and dispel the deep night.
The moanings and cryings
and hissings of pain
are the breathe-sounds of life
boldly calling its claim
to give forth to the light
that is held deep within,
to cover the reek of the
death that has been.
For truth bears no image
and cares for it less
than the marking and pressing
of idyllic- like bliss
on the heart and soul/spirit
of the one who would quest,
for peace is its border
and the traveler . . a guest.
And safely and neatly
it suffers and waits
for the sensing and knowing
to ebb and abate.
And give way once again
to the sight of illusions,
without the true nature
all things are delusions. . .