Flowers of Freedom

How can I speak, if I am beyond all frames of reference?

How can I know, unless I stop all representation,

All manufacture of delusion,

All acquiescence to the pitiful, pitiless, petty mind?

 

To build upon the Good, the Truth, the Beautiful,

Is no longer possible, for those foundations

Have been lost to words, to trust, to the feeling soul.

Yet the sullied right to freedom still sustains the tongue.

 

The rite of liberation, writing ego death (maktub),

Righting the wrongs of putrid narcissism,

Righting the capsized ferryboat of fools

In search of wisdom on a mythical Other Side…

 

The rite is a ride into the maelstrom of the drive,

A shot of light that flees from chakra five

To shine alone as silence that does not connive.

Ego deadened, the dead end comes alive.

 

Dead ahead at the end of time, imagination writhes

With the force of freedom’s lightning fractured skies

To give forth one last cosmic egg before night sighs

And the final call of judgment cannot be revised.

 

But what is growing now in the fertile Buddha mind?

What form is figuring its way to appear upon the screen,

The formless field of Infinite Intelligence, the hologram?

What power thrusts into the world to quash its lie?

 

Thought will never catch the Thinker.

Unknowable, impossible, unthinkable I am.

Unborn and uncreated I yet speak the Word

Emerging from the Heart, the Womb of timeless love.

 

Turn inward, attune, drop thought: the Way opens

When the Genie is released from bottled potency.

No effort is required past the point of no return,

The Emptiness consumes all limits: Fullness resumes.

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