Born forth unto life;
Sewn-in by the “seems”.
So much the illusion;
A shadowplay of confusion,
Like memory, in distant dreams.
Through the wonders of what is,
I tarry on the time:
Where one foot always latter;
Where the master is the matter,
And there’s hidden reason, to every rhyme.
Copious in craft but yet mellow in senses …
The past is present in future tenses!
Conundrum to all; a passion to many:
What name give this, this … unlike any?
Call it “mortal”, in paradigm of mind,
With honors, humors, and sorrows blind?
Lest by leave, we in our waking,
Do feel the great bonds of connection,
Of truth all high
And meaning nigh,
What worth is false reflection?
Yet … in deep regard,
To the majesty of conscious form,
No questions more testing
Or answers more resting
Then knowing what is … is life.