Life’s a lucid dream where we are in trance,
so we reflect on musings created,
in imaginary realms where we dance,
our roles shape shifting, stooped stance sedated,
at times sorrowful, at times elated.
Having not made love and light our mainstay,
our dreams betray that we have lost our way.
if as yet we still feel agitated
at the misdemeanours of the other
it signals we are deeply sedated
seeing not the other as our brother
The snake oil salesmen give a pill for depression
with the side effect of suicidal ideation.
A toxic concoction of charlatan greed
snake oil salesman and political madness.
At some point, you'll be diagnosed by a stranger.
Who has known you for 10 Minutes.
A D.E.I entity becomes your soul masseuse and manicurist.
Trimming burrs from the brain, putting pastel to dark words.
Pushers of protracted numbness and pain.
A million patches of burlap, never a concrete cure.
A heartless machine of trapdoor profit
and smash-mouth blame.
The mentally broken overflowing drains
a million sedated flowers
left in the jagged rain.
The Self as the all is the absolute ‘I’,
which ego impersonates, so it must die.
Upon ego death, we are liberated,
awake in this dream, where we were sedated.
War in its profound essence
begins not in the battlefield,
but in the dark chambers of human ego.
The self-interest thrives on the illusion of invincibility,
distorts the judgement of historical forces,
designs the destiny of nations
to misshape the configuration of the world.
The selfish egos of war write the story of pride,
seeking a permanent legacy of triumph.
The tragedy lies in their blindness to the primary truth
that all existence is intertwined,
and to harm others is to destroy oneself
when the guns go silent and the dusts settle.
In the irrationality of war their vanity
can’t transcend the narrow limits of egotism.
Sedated by the delusion of greatness
the selfish egos of war seek to embed themselves
upon the enduring world,
but their quest for immortality ironically hastens erasure.
The titular template
of lyrical loneliness,
serenading
spaced out
the upbeat ethereal
mystique melody
of dreams
cadenced with
rhythmic quietude,
invigorated by
the rhapsody of
the million idyllic steps
I walk,
setting free
the hesitating heart
that quivers with
the wilderness willows,
the concrete contours
of inflexible essence
repudiate intractably
the catharsis reprisal.
I find a placating place
at the serene edge
of the stalled time,
sense sedated
the sound of silence.
All the dreams
blaze like emotive ember
in memory inferno,
swathed by the ashes
I breathe besieged
the smoky past,
whisper hollow words
to the amorphous air,
for I have nothing
more to say,
and silently float
in the sky of nothingness
with splintered awareness.
The sulking space between
the slices of soul,
where frail feelings
get frozen,
the lattice of desolation
is configured
with the shards of
shapeless desire,
turning to illusive images,
as they soar
to the void
of oblivion
in the solemn sky of
silence…
Be fooled not by solidity of form,
within this domain we have created,
borne by heart’s desire, which conjured this storm,
within which we now wander sedated.
Desire’s a need which must be satisfied,
so to quell the fire, which in heart does rage,
we remain to cravings of ego tied,
till we attain quietude of a sage.
We know not the truth since we enter trance,
that we may fully feel each thrust of lust,
yet in silence, making erect our stance,
pulsations of conscience we learn to trust.
Indulge if you will but flow like the breeze,
in nonchalance, mode embrace and release.
where within our form, is God located
a futile search to keep ego busy
doomed to failure since thoughts are sedated
all that results is we become dizzy
insentient to bliss bubbles fizzy
present everywhere, surging within form
cognised when we resist not love’s bliss storm
Praying in a programmed way,
rituals day after day,
a new pattern created,
for soul to be sedated.
Chanting a mantra or hymn,
or flowers offered to Him,
are doings of body-mind,
habits we best leave behind.
Unshackled from the mind tree,
the enlightened sage is free,
moving about as he likes,
as bliss rapture in form spikes.
In all-time meditation,
each breath a celebration,
poised as a flicker-free flame,
soul ascends in life’s end game.
we often do pause to assess
tremors by us inadvertently created
as we mindfully refine our consciousness
we also wonder why we are sedated
my endless void of grief breathes pain
no light, no hope, no peace, no gain
just aching hollow uncontained
my memories unspoken
on replay always broken
adrift upon a glassy sea
of nothingness, a nowhere me
sedated by my apathy
a shell, a husk, no feeling
a ghostly past comes stealing
a whisper sighs within the haze
a truth sublime begins to blaze
life can be better than this phase
The mirror starts to splinter
An end for endless winter?
then breath returns somehow within
and pulse where none before had been
a hint of light past darkest sin
dim, unsure, yet brighter still
to heal a long broken will
the journey long, dark and bitter
yet beauty found amidst litter
grace and strength to become fitter
inner light, no surrender
heart unbroken but tender
;
In the eternal now, no thoughts exist,
where thus poised, attention animated,
agendaless vibrance, like a bliss mist,
renews itself in itself as fated,
soul’s light, refusing to be sedated,
flowing gently through life in witness mode,
bliss drenched emptiness being its abode.
"Love made in a silent kiss, as its invisible windblown tendrils
reach towards God's divine."
Quote by poet
With the ticking of precious time,
we had fallen in perfect love.
A love so real, it ignited brilliant streams of strong,
most collaborative innermost songs and genuine
sensations of outspoken Love.
A scent of flirtatious Zephyr
under the warm sunshine, soothing romantic waterfall
pull, and a sylvan forest charm as we sat sedated
under dancing leaves, breathless in
wisp tendrils of a silent kiss
in the lull of tall trees, a solitude haven feeling.
Warmed waves of ardent sunshine rose, flourished and took faint hold
to magical spell of endless
hope, touched by dramatic beauty.
"By the squeaky old gate that tomorrow will find,"
kindness is a necessary handkerchief:
convex lips to meet mine with gentle understanding
words that tenderize as a snarling babe sedated by mother's milk
Please wait for me there
never minding fallen appearances
spider veins spindled in my corporation - bogus skins -
depleted gums, haunted eyes
Extend a posy, a leaf of scripture, a lump of sugar
be impressed at the flounce of this wisteria skirt
and silver-studded circulation stockings
in remembrance of my blush
Unexpectedly, I heard she was still alive.
She had been living (as a flame),
in a room
I had made for her in my mind.
I had kept her there tucked away,
sedated and forever young.
Now I hear she is alive, though a little arthritic,
and living in Sussex with four cats.
Of course, the affair must now cease.
The fantasy cauterized,
her body heat squeezed out of my bloodstream
like a spicy toothpaste.
I should hate for her to see me as I am now
besides my own youth has become a ghost to me,
but perhaps just one more time
I will enter that secret place
where I know
she waits for me, still smiling seductively.
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