Ego and divinity

April 18, 2009 § 17 Comments

Upon a peaceful ocean ,
A thought did rise . 
That thought did move
Within the worlds , as a screw
Would into a wooden hollow . 

As judgements were passed , 
And prejudices concluded ,
To all but a few the truth
Eluded . Virtues and vices
Are relatives at war , 
Divided by a single wall . 
On either of that does lie
A way – somewhere , infinity
They do meet and there 
Contradictions nay exist . 
Yet till that point there does
Seem , a world at a brawl ,
Within itself always ready 
To start a fire at the scent of smoke .

Forces greater than the container
Are contained , by the sheer inept
Of those contained to recognize
A frail misnomer . The forces so contained
Do pray to the within to discover
A better lens to notice the
Venomous drops , the poison .

And once the mind does locate
Where it seems the simple twist
Of fate seems to be placed ,
It does try to frame a case
Of revolution , an air of arrogance ,
The charm of ego and deliberation.

The ego is a way to feel the abyss
And not that which we pit against those
As wise . The ego is a virtue to protect
And feel all those below earthly morality .
The ego is to break the walls of discrimination .
And that ego is a screen drawn  not to
Close love but to open the eyes of justice.

The only justice is poetic
And as each action churns a reaction ,
The world watches with concentration
And tries to balance with a fervor , a penchant
Soaked in a universal beauty ,
The song of which brings a deja vu
And belonging becomes de rigueur
For every creature .

At such a stark moment , the ego
Becomes a wall upon which you do
Stand and observe the obsessed world .
As a prophet to the mortal , the immortal
Sires the world and becomes the inner star ,
Set at a spot , showing direction ,
The venerated divine , the harbinger
To the future , the holder of the keys
To completion of an ultimatum .

With such a serene posture ,
The hand and the paper become
One . As one weaves through the other ,
That which is drawn breaks the beauty
Of stillness and the mesmerizing silence
Only to carve a beatitude beyond
The revealed rites of revered veneration –
The ode to world through perception.

And on such paper and as the hand
Becomes the mouth that disturbs the air ,
The thoughts on the ocean form
A known citation , seen within
And calm the diligent ego to mere strength .

As towers upon an unseen base ,
You do stand and watch the height
Of the sea , knowing that written
On the shore sand is temporary .
Yet that penned into memory ,
Is the message , to be visited
Again and again , in time’s rein ,
To establish the threads ,
To relight the blown fire
And rekindle the presence .

Everything is an illusion .
And so let the world be .
yet within each sketched ,
Does lie a world , the creativity
Of another illusion – reality
Mounted idealism , The final
curve to the straight column ,
The finesse of mind’s design .
And as the illusion’s illusion ,
Takes strength from its perceiver ,
The creator , it does add a tantamount
Code to the encore of the world .

Yet a while it does take
For another to conquer
The imagination and rise
The almost moribund ,
A final twitch before disappearance
And cause agitation in
The being’s bosom .

At such a moment ,
The negations seem to add up ,
All in whole and almost real
And thought aware ,
Such is the nature
That the being allows
Th virus to infect ,
If only not to let the world
Be poisoned.

And such and such is called divine
By plenty and worth a merry hail
But they do fail , they fail,
To see that it is not scarifies
And the ego’s penance ,
But that it is a discovery
To thrall the abyss by
The sheer resistance of life –
The strength of the wall
We do sit upon , the power
Of that which sits on the wall
And the stars whose lights do connect
The world by illuminating the world .

If not for anti , the ego has no existence .
If not for fear and guilt ,
The world would not be built
As it is but would have been formed
By the hands of creation –
The procreation of thoughts upon
Thoughts , the pro evolution
Of mud into bricks , of dusk
Into a dawn , memoir
Of man’s visage when he
Did see that he was free
To contemplate the way to the stars
And to carve a transient image on the shore
And letting the ocean the one to hide
That which is at the other side of sky’s brink .

The soul of life is divinity .
The beauty of movements ,
The culture of souls to choose ,
The ability to be alive .
Divinity is the way we feel ,
Divinity is the veracity .
And that truth which it represents ,
Is a means to an end .

At a solvent moment ,
The ego dissolves .
The viruses are none .
The illusions float below
And the world is a calm proposition.
Life seems to be drenched
In itself. The containers break ,
The Pandora box is overridden
As the world feels the hands’
Alacrity to be itself .

Life is life .
The world is alive .
Everything is an illusion
And we live in our perception .
Veracity and its integrity
Are the natural scales which we adhere
And as the notes of a song
Whatever pitch we breath
And ours heart’s beat
The love we feel
Will set us free .
For revolution is action
Where we reveal to ourselves
What we are , the action
Which frees us from the ordinary
And makes us to be the divinity .

Love is a essence ,
The flavour to let out the strings
And understand the world .
Love is the soul’s delight ,
For it is the fire of the fight .

As the world comes back alive
And the waves do eat the sketch
And reality is set alight ,
We do feel we belong ,
To this , that which is a metaphor
To our life , that which hides
From our sight , that we seek
For lending a meaning to life .

The joy of ego less superiority ,
The joy of divinity .
The God you are is what you will be ,
The God the world is ,
What you want it to be .
The God ultimately ,
Is the God that has to be .

Truth is not the end
But the means to an end.


The light shines the brightest


A metaphor called God

January 19, 2009 § 19 Comments

A blanket above,
A world below,
As dreams fill sleep,
Angles oblique and steep,
Fill grotesque hours with
Inert worth of days, betwixt.

The day scumbs to night,
The hours hang alive,by minutes,
Postulates to the sense of being alive.
Attachments call,to feel,
To be,to sense victory,of something
Which is an image of something greater.

A metaphor called God,
Revives a sense of an all
Engraved hour-into one,
Of an acclaimed need,in a few
Verses,which relight the sight,
To the touch of a greater proportion,
The value of life-the pinnacle of salvation.

To err is human,yet to err is not human.
A cell of nature,an atom of a final being,
Circular waves of creation and destruction,
Flow within,thus making a final preposition-
That balance is within and around,
Freedom senseible and yet bound.
The liberty to move,
The capricious constants,
Which grow and grew,
Thanks to winds of east and west,
Some ultimate zest,a locus at every point,
So cunningly mystic,
that to not dream is drastic.

In the being,a sense lives.
Of what?Of whom? Of where?
Is something which few dare,
To raise and even fewer to chase.
And to one whose moral is low,
How to put across,how to show,
That beyond everything there is a gap,
And that which dares not to show up,
Is the one which we need to find,
For a known foe is better than an unknown fiend.

God,a superlative common,
To all.Yet one which we deem to be stoned
Or ubiquitous yet made to be borne.
But nay,the circumstances,
The thee breaths free-as free
As any human born into the world,
A product of nature and essentially
Of something greater,a wall against to run,
To constantly compare and raise to,
From birth to death through.

The God is of a greatness,which within
We strive to evolve,to push the being,
As God is one,and all is one,termed
Or understood to be God.If not for
Man’s intellect how would a word,
Be thrown about,stud to every language,
Common to everyone alive? how a concept
Be so profound and left to interpret
And yet be starved with glorious neglect
Of a few? From where or when arose
This force or concept such,
That its value be so little yet so lush?

When can a mind,be so alive,
That is sees life? When can pain
Be so alive,that living is a sense?
What worth is this world,
When one dreams? And what of
God,does is it mean?
A mode through which we know?
Or a clear and stark iridescent show?
A spark of light?
Or the setting sigh of a twilight?

What integrity does everything propose
To,that we have a value to set aside
And compare and abide? The way of God?
If so,then a balance and not goodness to all
Can be seen,how can a universe be,
Set to a better tune,when the impact
Is seen as the one to reach and not the
Beauty and vivacity of each string and sound?
Is this a way to be bound? Ignorance
Seems to chaff life of a greater benevolence.
Yet something keeps alive.
Something tells you,you are right.

One in all,
All in one,
Justice, poetic,
Illusions mystic.
visions and thoughts
All within and around a circle,
Yet what tangent should we find,
To take a new path and understand
The nature of light?
If life be a force,
If earth be or not be more than a rock,
What is the master plot?

God,A feeling,a sense,
To be seen within,that which
Prompts and pulls and moves,
The being from within,
That which strives to give
Sense to all.If life was just
A being with thought and sense
And the ability to feel,
God is that which makes
All of it real and a sense of superior,
Which motivates the being to move,
And then search its value.

If God is the truth,then it means
To search it,means an means to an end.
If God be life,then it means a calm
To overcome phases of death.
If God means everything,
Then it is a negation of nothing.
And so God be everything,
That which is everything we know
Moves,which prompts us to move,
So that it too,can grow through
And intend its virtue to a few more,
Of cosmic worlds unknown and unseen.

God is a metaphor,
The name,the forms given to the blur,
Which we all see.
The force which makes us think,
The force that makes us seek.
Instinct and knowledge,
Worlds and Wisdom,
Virtue and venerated.

Without a gap,
Without a constant arising
From all,what curve can be right?
Might and brutish strength,
Achievements through veiled plagues,
Yet justice served is infinite
And so it is poetic.
God at a poet’s heart,
Seems to sketch,something,
Consistent and thoughtful
Yet a play with misery and beauty,
Every tone to its worth.

But what can draw,all this?
Unless one explodes at a point
In time,that which forces a rime,
To be made alive and burst
alive ,forces forced to move,
Gravity of it all,new.
Unseen but felt,
We can value it,relative
To our life and what we sell.

Thus all in all God,
Is that which we be
That which causes and
Is the virtue of causation,
Whose effects infuse a
Sense and make us seek
The beginning as the end,
And again the end,
All the while seeking a tangent
To move to a different sense,
Where in elevation is gained by
Meeting another circle and another
Way out,in and out of life and
Virtual into a mental idea and stride
All the while in a world of real illusions.

The God is a metaphor,
Of superior sight,
Of the innate we abide.
Truth is not the end
But means to an end.

mortality is lost when
sense of reality is found.
Man’s work is to break inability
To achieve it or not destiny.

The light shines the brightest

A pleasurable moment

November 26, 2008 § 3 Comments

A pleasurable moment.
As the winds swayed the trees
longer and longer, as the roots
strained,the clouds circled
and smeared into a blinding 
rage of continuous cold rain.
From all directions
they culred and merged,
uniting and parting,
with feathery fierce
and lovable verse-
unification and ramification
of one in meloncany depression.

Water hallows life
and the raw substance
of purity, pertains
the presence within
to wonder fill the
mind-in awe,
in the superiority
of an ancient cycle,
one still so tenacious
and routine adhering,
as if it was its prayer
to expose the mindlessness
of humans and their
predicament and folly
in their creation.

At the top of the world,
at the vertex of a triangle
at the peak of a mountain,
within lies a joy
of profound silence,
lest the evil smile
of destruction ever bear
resilience.Neither place
not time matter,
as the rain incessant
ponders the earth
forever gullible ,
not solidified,even
by human imagination.
And on that ledge
open and exposed,
if one were to stand,
the belonging,
the attachment,
between earth and humans
can be felt,
where man can let the minds
flow through and listen
to the tunes of natures
way of beginning a new
chain of causing culvert
beating down of the vary
and fueling the life of
the within mighty.

Yet all we see is
a blanket of destruction,
which moves in from
the high seas
and rides on winds,
bound in one horizontal
direction.The clouds
seem to be forces of mayhem,
the death God’s coveted
tool of justice.But
the only justice we forget
is poetic and that shall
preserve the truth
as much as the clouds their
swaying fruit-
as the drizzle breezes
on to the face and we
rush for cover
from the torrent that
shall follow.

For such is the nature-
for the sun might be hid
and earth might face a gloomy fit,
yet the gray darkness
is a reminder that none
is superior than the whole,
that the instrument’s
sound can be played,
only if the artist is so made
and the climate ready to hear
the beauty of the untold,
yet known,repeated in
just another way.

from a guarded place,
in between a populous race,
the rain still never fails to amaze.
Even as i face none of the worse
implications of the storm
which by some grace got made,
I can never but be at ease
that such forces exist,
which makes it worth being it.
Never can a joy be higher
than when in oneness with
something greater,yet such claims
are just sinister-for nothing
can be felt which isn’t.

The light shines the brightest

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