What Is This Life
What is this life, this reality?
Why do I question it so relentlessly?
So many moments seemingly meaningless,
meandering through this meaningful sentience.
Chronology…
Continuity…
Spirituality…
But really, Oxford will tell you:
Property of being real, resemblance to Original.
Accountable, in my opinion, only through dissemblance.
What I ask, is it original?
It’s all rather subliminal!
Made up by man and the idealism of 'ideal'.
Be like Budda, be like a tree,
pray to Gods, pray for money.
This will make you healthy, that will make you ill.
Where is the free will in all this obscurity?
What is this substance we call reality?
I beg your pardon, Sir and Madam,
excuse my blasphemy if religion is your reality,
But goddamn, Sir and Madam
It’s outrageous and random,
The idea…
The ideal…
Any idea for that matter!
For what is blaspheme?
Speaking irreverently of sacred things!
But what is not sacred down to a grain of sand?
If all by the hand and will of God,
Or aliens...
Or angels…
Or spark of light,
Let us not in the slight pretend,
to know or name a single thing.
Sacred cannot be named,
Or unnamed…
Or claimed…
And yet it is,
as tangible as anything alive.
Let's not deprive a word as 'sacred',
dictated to be, this or that.
Of all facts I know this fact;
Sacred is as sacred be.
As she walks, as she decrees,
she is ancient, beyond antique,
she is the vessel through which divinity speaks.
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