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Poem

Prepared illusion is the offering;
you are invited to remain, sustain
your pre-ordained existence as you wish.
The cost is just your freedom--
non-negotiable, I fear, but then
our common heritage is that
which sometimes we call God--
something cosmic bouncing
in the foetal twilight of our brains.

It may be envy of an innocence
that some will hold 
fast to their breasts, never tasting
the largesse before us,
never wise as we, approaching
spirit delectation sensibly
with appetence forever unresolved.

Perhaps the church is right;
creation acts ex nihilo,
for even chimera presents
its shining mental child
amidst the atoms of the mind
irresolute to celebrate its own.

As for the mind, it too
shrinks from the questions
of its birth.  There are no answers
and the feast serves questions of its own--
those as well, illusory.  As such
I may be pardoned for my lack of faith in God.
My words are product of an emptiness
conterminous with me.
The good news is
I have some timelessness
to deal with that.
                ~

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