You see around you many things—
things you have concurred with, fabricated, taken part in.
You hurt.
It makes you both helpless and sad,
yet happy and hopeful.
You have the sense to feel all of this.
But when you are separated from your senses,
you feel nothing.
It is ecstasy,
and just a fantasy of an illusionist's life.
The senselessness of being
Fills heaven with rainbows.
Everything is you—
a life and the universe.
You will shout, sing, and dance
In the space you occupy.
Now, be in sense, eyes wide open.
Feel the darkness and light,
sunshine and harsh wind,
trails of softness, trails of iron,
each denuding life.
These are invisible threads en route
to the common destination: the grave.
Books are bound, framed, and forced.
Weeping, smiling, they are taught naught.
Perfection and decency are treasures—
things forgotten and unlearned.
Aging, we grow experienced. Then what?
We are pulled down to the grave.
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