Life’s pure luscious wings are spread,
as feathered days on dusty nights prepared,
to herald now the passing of our slowly drifting years,
an honouring of all that has been shared.
Surrendering of day and known self,
softened folding, drape and fall of skin,
we shed the images of old and sadly drooping dreams,
to show the shape so long and truly hid.
What lives behind the shining mask,
ego-polished with mind’s soft, worn rag,
that holds us, fearing, back, with bright, death-awful glare
blinding sight to what lies lost and rare?
Desire to seek lies limply lost,
there is no call to hear or strive to find,
no dream that leads us on to mightier, noble truths;
we wait, abandoned by the rule of mind.
And in the waiting time reveals its truth,
that all the doing dressed in troubled rags
disguised the deepest being of our soul;
denied the wisdom holding out its hand.