I wrestled the moon matrix all night long
As the sea swept away the places I’ve been
To the space of pure mind at the end
Of that container we call the cosmos,
Which is only where imagination fails.
Do we see the same people lifetime
After lifetime because they are family
Or because we dream them, again and again?
Imagination has its limits too,
It needs something to cry to,
Like the moon, that silver serving dish
That spares us all the spoiling meal,
Left to devices all our own, because
Cultivated by beings unknown
Who turn out, in the end, to be us.
What a mind fuck that one, to unpeel
The onion one tear at a time
To find it’s all the same in
The higher realms, just cleared
Like an etch-a-sketch of judgment.
Yet all is seen. That’s the purpose of the thing,
The sealing of the echo off, for identity loop
Reverberation. The holy spheres are yours,
They require only your permission
For admission
But only, it seems, to feel it in
And learn something of what you are,
Not the actual, multi-dimensional host
But the bug in the lining, trying
To bore a hole into the black,
In endless expanse of mind as it discovers itself
In what … it makes up! Not recalled exactly
But called: The power to desire,
That thing control-freak plutocrats
With the compassion of a snake had.
