Some Men Die To Survive
Some men die to survive
the Hard endures
the Soft succumbs stews in juices reproduces exults
disappears
the heartless breaks cracks crumbles
drags
the Ephemeral down the ravines of the also-ran rivers
dissolves
explodes
The myriads and myriads who breathe but spent air
the haemoglobin of genetic change
all the ephemeral dust of pain
destruction and damnation
Now and then one hears talk of everlasting Oneness
of undying Truth and Salvation
whose whispers linger longer than the astroidal rain’s howling phantom winds holocaust blasts in the ears of ovens
pent-up change piercing permanence
Some men die to survive
nothing remains of them but the hollow word they shaped and filled with sense common sense
the word that thinks creates the Void
Even the Compassionate Prince’s plain truths grow limp and fall on hardened ears
his tooth
a colossal myth
piercing the sky
common words of common sense
fetched in Essenic straw-buckets of Dead Sea scrolls
whose words survive
on the lips of those who cannot lie
who remember only the Law
words will uphold
what Truth will never connive
mind-full messages torn from tongues long silent
come crashing from mountain-top roofs the frozen trek down tricky treacherous slopes
words meander through slots of seething ice-packs
the Wanderer surrenders with squeezed-out bated breaths
the burden of ages
preserved on the lips of the deathless errant Everyman
handed down by the Pauper-Prince
become the common man who strolls through untrodden paths
the simple obvious truths which never stifle
throttle
How many stark truths make up the ultimate whole Truth
will Truth out
no matter what
The naked Truth is not for Man
he needs his truth cloaked clothed
to be unraveled
made a mystery of by mystificators
by authors who only know how to speak with their hands
accompanying gestures of effete moral preachment skeins
embroidering the skies that shift and shatter with the times
Some lisp the Truth
heard only by the few
and made to look all anew
afresh bestowed given as life-renewing elixir
and let others connive whose skills lie in making It ring true
in caverns beyond lost horizons
by starlight
gathering mists hugging low the Dead Sea growls
Take the worshipful apostle myths away
a hundred a hundred and fifty odd years gone
the myrrh the high-quality incense
the barn-birth and the Three Wise Men
led by a trekking star
the carpenter’s intestate Holy Virgin
the Sermon on the Mount
the bared cheeks
and you still hear Shakhyamuni
voice not doubt on the Cross
Eli Eli Lama Sabachthani
© T. Wignesan – Paris, 2016
Copyright © T Wignesan | Year Posted 2016
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