Being

Echoes, ripples in gelatinous space,
Rhythms, pulses, a sublime cacophony,
Far from the periphery of perspective,
The raucous ruckus deafening,
Yet on the edges,
Only the magnitude delta wanes,
Amidst the unending resonant silence.

Despite continuous exchange, mutation,
Warm inviolable presence reflects,
Polyform, an infinitude of colours,
Boundless and with unending compassion,
Yet nobody,
Only the incessant stirring,
Amidst a featureless plateau,
And atop no mountain.

Who or what stirs?
Who or what asks?
Who or what sees?
Who or what knows –
Not through confined, limited particulate,
Echoing, ripples, but of unending skin.

Incessant is the question,
And with it the answer,
Always the same,
Ever present,
Never missing,
The unerring fabric of indiscriminate form,
And of void, serenely formless.

Inflamable, yet ablaze,
It burns.
Only through burning does it see,
I am awake.
Like the heat of a flame,
Without it, nothing stirs.
With it, still no thing,
Only echoes, ripples, wobbling,
Ceaseless and yet still not knowing,
Still, completely known.

Simmering reflections express dim yearning,
Imbued at times with an anxiety, panic,
An inevitable turmoil as form broils,
Dancing, scorching, smoke billows,
I gorge sanguine upon the smouldering ashes,
Fairytale battle fought as divine comedy,
In pointing, dim reflection,
Yet subject of pointing, a mere eddy.

It points to me and we are one,
Yet it is not me,
I am – I suffuse in all,
Without which there is no thing,
No gelatinous space, no echoes, no warble,
No ruckus to behold, no unerring perspective,
No discordant silence.

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