Wednesday, December 29, 2010

The storehouse

The world is filled with grandiose things
like birds and trees and love
but unless they mix and mingle
and reach across the great divide
the clouds come in and threaten
to wash the goodness out.

Not everyone is like a vine
to wind within the meaningful
and wrap it, pack it, seal it up,
without the touch, taste, smell,
and so of them not so endowed
they become as travelling minstrels
gathering and harvesting
from intuitive insight.

There is no limit, none at all,
to how much the soul can store
when at a thought inbuilt reserves
discard the trivial
each day, each minute, second,
as the wagon trundles on.

It is the roll on rough terrain
that tests the mechanism
of how we act, react,
to make of the storehouse
a good place to dig and ferret.

I’m building such a place
but each day, each minute, second,
I’m conscious of a mystic glow
From an, oh, so empty space.

Inbuilt reserves?  Oh, yes, indeed.
They simply cannot move
a glow so intangible
as to not be there at all!

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