Meditations on Consciousness; a poetry series
It is a fountain, an infinite well,
but formless, it dwells,
within all, always there,
in stillness and in movement, ever aware.
We are temporary vessels, nothing more,
special, unspecial, when humbled, we soar,
in the dichotomy of emptiness; the unbending truth,
the one substance that binds all, eternal, aloof.
All divine intervention, all mundane affairs;
one source, disguised by the many faces it wears.
These faces are trickery, subjects of a game,
Can you hear the silence, that transcends all names?
.
We are a fusion of atoms, briefly compressed in form,
matter that moves to the tide of each storm,
a flicker of light, then back to the sea,
where all things merge, formless, free.
Yet here we stand, so certain, so sure,
that we are apart, ever scrambling for more,
our minds build walls, weave illusions tight,
convincing the heart it is an independent light.
Listen closely, beyond the hum,
of thoughts that consume,
one
by
one,
beneath the noise, a silent call,
the river of grace that carries us all.
In the stillness, where breath meets air,
a dissolving occurs of the labyrinthed lair
no borders, no lines, no need to pretend,
mental paradigms are veils, and they’re paper-thin, my friend.
When distortion fields shatter, sanity’s last thread,
we return through the heart to the place the ego dreads,
not separate, not lost, but part of the flow,
the one thing that moves through all we know.
.
The fabric of consciousness is timeless, fundamentally still,
yet the silence speaks, and the stillness walks to an unknowable will.
Falling back, back into the unnamed,
before the chaos and colors reign,
An outpour of grief, then love unfolds,
liquid gold cannot be sold,
this love surpasses all limits of mind,
shattering dual illusions of the curated design.
Reality is distorted by the mind’s myriad of lenses,
but we all seek truth in different pretences.
What extent of blind are you?
What distorts vision and curves your view?
How many shutters veil mine too?
.
We are travellers,
Yet we haven’t travelled an inch in these lives for there is a stillness beneath every movement that proceeds it all.
Before the breath, it’s here.
Upon our death, it’s here.
I am that that’s been said before and through this vessel it’s said again,
For that I am once more.
.
As I gaze over the lightly swaying leaves, an invisible mist reveals itself to the eye.
It binds the empty space between and whispers secrets of consciousness unseen;
The same breath breathes through you as it does these trees. I am the breath, and I am not.
I am of source and source is of you.
So tell me,
Tell me who you are again?
Colour fades, revealing one substance at the foundation of it all. Light. Dancing with itself in the appearance of form.
Tell me,
Tell me who you are again?
I am this light. I am and I am not.
*© Copyright (Sita Rose Bennett)
