The Mystery of Love
Within the space of nothingness
there lies totality...dimensions
that the sailing ships will never find.
Here, the lurking presence of the self
within the guise of consciousness
is yet unseen, unknown
among the whirling wisps of every "I"
that stopped to trace its alpha
and in pretense face omega's fire.
There is no mystery in looking back
or building for the holocaust; the distant rumbling
celebrates the watch, the now in formless splendor
that the longing heart has waited for,
that tug upon complacency,
as if to draft a paradise forever new,
a mystical embrace that sees imagining
too far beneath the stars. There is
a light bedazzling our fondest hopes,
devotion past desire that enters
like the dawn, makes saints to blush
at burning, the selfless rush to sacrifice,
It is enough to know, and not to understand
the stuff of all that is within creation's hands.
It is enough to burn in the refiner's fire,
consumed or no by a reality
that holds within its womb, itself,
its passion for the light,
a birth of God upon its bed,
and ready with a bursting breast
to nurture with unprecedented awe,
the progeny of home.