Samsara
"Samsara!"
Yelled a young prophet
With one eye and a cane.
His eye was made of tightly bundled,
Tall, wet grass.
His cane the smooth, rounded
Pebbles of a Dakota stream.
His voice was the tinsel thunder of God's,
Like yours and mine
Though with this difference:
There was no more of himself.
The yellowing light of Time,
It's pulsing, churchless transubstantiation
had spun a bright and absorbing bloom within.
He was of Earth and Spirit now.
He had achieved the Great Nothing
that we all beg and sob
And clench at our mother's dress over.
He finished: "Samsara!,"
He shouted from a bodily silence
In a forest on a city block,
"Release their hearts!
For even that is not their own!
As they hear the bird's notes soar,
May they realize love's swinging door!"
He left them then, ignored,
For the trees beyond the sprawl.
The Light beyond the Wall.
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