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.
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