The Mystery

A touch, a gleam,
There’s something there,
I cannot see.
I know it exists,
For without,
I wouldn’t be me.

Yet I watch,
Looking for proof.
All is touched,
But none can claim:
The ever presence,
Of this flame.

It never lives,
It never dies.
It is central to all,
But is nothing at all.
Emptiness it must be,
Yet somehow it made me.


The Kite

A kite flies high,
with not a care to be had.
It soars with great pleasure,
under the bright, billowing sun.

It moves from here to there,
seeing what it wants.
It takes great pride,
in all that it has done.

Suddenly the breath of the winds give way,
the kite slumps to the ground in disarray.
It cries in defeat as it loses its once great position,
only to find a more humble disposition.

It struggles for lift,
one last time.
But finds it must contend,
with this lowly plight at hand.

But just as suddenly a loss,
the winds were born yet again.
The kite flew high in amazement,
what did it do to create this repayment?

Just like the winds around,
it realized it was only a portion.
All it did was just an illusion,
for everything around was the real propulsion.


Winds of Change

I am the winds of change,
the point between day and night.
The cool breeze goes through me,
like a blade in sand.
The sharp edge of the clouds
cut through the darkening sky.
The time has now come,
the time of movement.
Energy surrounds me,
reality is no more.

All is now coming to rest,
I am no longer separate.
But where shall I go?
Who shall I be?
I sit atop a field of long, dry grass,
and await for that golden wind.

That wind of essence,
that wind of being.
It supports and destroys,
it lives and dies.
It moves me forward, ever forward,
into the night of whence I came.
As I slowly peer into deep water,
I only see myself:
the wind that stirs the river of all.