We Walk Alone

From birth to death, each of us walks alone, in as a narrative we wish to feel, thus as we embrace, release and atone, we rely on God’s love and light to heal. In a subject-object relationship, we believe ourself to be feeble form and engaged in games of one-upmanship, earth life for most part, is a turbid storm. We know not who we are and yet live on, in pursuit of ephemeral desires and so it continues, both praise and scorn, until the day our exhausted heart tires. Shifting horizons now hold no appeal, somewhat diminished is our zest and zeal. Somewhat diminished is our zest and zeal, discovering our efforts were in vain, upon which in altar of God we kneel, praying love and light glows in heart again. Recognising that we script not our fate, shifting into silence, we become still, making our heart once more, childlike and chaste, that by grace divine, voids within may fill. Having thus relinquished our thought flow crutch, we surrender, melding head with our heart, ingraining direct wisdom by soul’s touch, mindfully choosing to add love to cart. Emptiness then, is the way to begin; cave of heart’s open, so we go therein. Cave of heart’s open, so we go therein, remaining aware with nary a care, whereupon we feel magnetism plug-in, cajoling our polarities to pair. As a receptor, there’s nothing we do, for to be truthful, there is no road map and each nuance felt is pristine and new, drawing us to God by closing the gap. We shout from the rooftops but no one hears, unable to comprehend the bliss flame, held in benign currents, God Himself steers, revealing deep wisdom that has no name. In a realm dual, in bondage to mind, we know not the truth, because we are blind. We know not the truth, because we are blind but now having seen, with our inner eye, we cognise God is wise, loving and kind, known if we agree to let ego die. We cling to identity, which is not, in as it is merely a thought construct but on shifting to heart, as we all ought, our false self dies, we see it self-destruct. It is clear that although monks wish to share, the wisdom sublime, they have so imbibed, those who refuse to see, just cannot pair, enslave by ego, which has always lied. Harvest of grace is reaped, as of seeds sown; from birth to death, each of us walks alone.