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.