wisefool

I feel a thing that speaks through me.

A thing that curls misty vapors into faint symbols as the air leaves my lungs.

Delivering its own eulogy as it slowly dies through me; through us all.

Telling me about its primordial beauty
and
Creating, through me, its progenitorial duty.

It is a death that began,
it tells me,
at alpha, om, and aleph

Yet, its finality,
it says,
is null, naught, and non.

In a moment of my own
indecision,
it found me;
its greatness and wisdom
paralyzed and silenced me;

releasing me from choice
and
imbuing me with its own vitality
and will. . .

I see it tracing my footstep a moment before I fall into it.

Instantly, I realize
I am the cat’s-paw
to its monkey claw.

Doing the dirty work of its righteousness
and
Marionetting the dance of its destiny.

It tells me my future,
in a vision,
as I am strung along;
It stomps me around,
through this trench of stench
it tells me,
to stamp out its own ugliness,
to unveil the beauty and joy,
to unleash the love and laughter
that is hidden under
the thin sheets of reality.

It tells me,
every movement forwards
is merely blown forth
by its infinite exhale.

Our doing is its death, it tells me,
And its death is our doing.

It mourns our mortality and empowers us to behold the most majestic of all that is finite.

It tells me,
This burn is for both our benefit.

__________________
Say hello to my frontal lobe.