Man’s Shit.
Flies’ Feast.
Irreconcilable Experiences.
Same Shit.
Author’s Note: This poem was written with my post modern friends in mind. Some of my POMO friends are constantly saying there is no objective truth, it is all subjective. This poem is intended to illustrate that a plethora of perceptions is not inconsistent with an objective truth at the center.
I hear something…
A Silent Voice.
Wordless Words.
Numinous Vibrations.
Speaking Compassion.
And Wisdom.
Illuminating.
Inspiring.
Knowing.
I feel something…
It is a thick warmth. That resides in the center of my chest.
It is always there but easily ignored.
But when I am still.
When I am quiet.
I recognize it.
If I surrender to it,
sometimes,
the warmth spreads through my body.
Filling my head.
Gently pushing out the racing thoughts until I am completely present.
With It.
I feel something…
Opening me.
Petal by Petal.
Skillfully.
Mysteriously.
As Spring opens her First Rose.
Something inside of me that isn’t me.
How do I know it isn’t me?
Because I am the one who hears It.
Because I am the one who feels It.
Because I am the one who witnesses It.
But I am not it.
It knows Me.
But I do not know It.
