I don’t like defining poetry because it packages and reduces its power. So take what personal significance you will from this poem. At its most basic level, it’s about finding your own truth, which lies beyond religious dogma, one’s ideas about spirituality, and everything outside of oneself.
They marched back from Varanazi, from Machu Picchu, from Kata Tjuta, from Bodhgaya, from Cairo, from Jerusalem, from Bethlehem, from Mecca, from Nauvoo
Image by Ula (away)
With a belief in a stripped, dull, blunted earth, in toil under endless suns, in the hollow call of the eagle’s wings, in organic to inorganic: in a literal myth rising from the ruins
They told you the Truth in words hot with an inaudible sneer that judges, denies, and guilts the great white crane, standing effortlessly in the still blue pond, singing your name with a silent power that unravels your body:
Image by cooljinny
dissolves your brain into pure thought, squeezes and rings the violent blood from your heart, plops your intestines into a red, pooling heap before dissipating them into the earth like a mirage on asphalt
So you, too, question your transformation until you grow weary enough of the world that the all of the all of you is enveloped into the entirety of eternity and into the transpersonal personal contained within the rhythm of your breath
Image by fdecomite
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