A Divergent Sub-Reality Game that Ruthlessly Destroys All Competitors, Especially the Winners
Nature's forests dropping leaves;
tomorrow seeks and finds her way
to nourish tender, growing seedlings
in the dead decay of yesterday.
Murdering crows, like vultures, feasting on the refuse
that's been consigned to lifeless, rotting maybes,
in excavated cemeteries, the eternal crematorium,
we perpetuate our useless futures and the futures of our babies.
As a cloud of formless forms, we reshape, regroup, regather, as we, collectively
digging in the so called artistry, in the chemistry, in poetry, in war or commerce, digging in manure,
we dream we're enjoying the taste sensation of a utopian free luncheon; we indulge our ghastly play,
die our lonely death and then return, hard-hearted refugees seeking selfish goals, we flee from all that's pure.
Here, more is less, a waste, a mess, the form of desperate cravings.
We must confess the sad distress we've created here and now, today,
as we profess to impress nobody in particular; the strangest stranger,
some shape-shifting no-one who neither cared nor mattered anyway.
We regard ourselves as noble, useful, celebrated, righteous and informed,
alas, we're merely criminals on a chain-gang, fettered to a useless, rigid karma.
Our duty is to listen, to humbly hear of truth; we absorb and understand,
so that when mercy floods our open souls, we recognise our dharma.
As profound as the glow of our little epiphanies seems to our moron minds,
it's all recycled garbage, reflections of the dead; it's all been done before.
Truth manifests as truth, never needing to reform.
Our lives are made of love, but in fear we cry for more.
tarunkrsnadas
Servant to ALL the devotees
