CONSUMMATUM EST

 

 

The Fulfilment of Incarnate Being.

 

(Paradise on Earth - or the Reciprocal Convergence)

  

 

How many coats of consciousness

must yield before the dawn

where man can live incarnate

without such pain to mourn.

  

What scalpel could be honed so sharp

to heal the wounds therein;

or does the knowledge of one’s self

eradicate the sin.

  

What lies before the thought of things

which manifests the day;

the realm of infinite duration,

where there is no price to pay.

  

What road transcends the temporal things

of form and shape and size,

where knowledge of the ground of self

illuminates the prize.

  

Where feeling is not touching

and knowing is not thought,

yet overcoming paradox

is a lesson to be taught.

  

Where metaphysics hangs its coat

and mystics dwell in awe

the singer may be sighted,

but the song goes on yet more.

  

 

 

 The inward journey trod and done

will yield the truth, but not the sum.

From whence we come we must return,

knowing not how, but with will to learn.

  

When Cosmos in the Atom dwells,

and the seer is that seen,

still yet our senses manifest

illusions of the dream.

  

But slowly moves the dawning

of illusions bubble burst,

when first we take a faltering step

with philosophic thirst.

  

What substance hath a shadow,

the minds virus of great might,

wherein the death of living truth

is but the lack of light.

  

Self righteous halls of intellect

who’s substance is but I,

like the sound of one hand clapping

knows not that which is nigh.

  

Like jewels cast out upon the tide

that sink with marching time,

it is not an act of nature

which perpetrates the crime.  

  

 

 The idea which creates the ‘self

and enshrines its love therein;

is the first sour fruit of freedom;

for the idol is the sin.

  

Stand not in awe, nor bow, nor scrape,

to creation by your hand;

for can it ever match the truth

within a grain of sand ?

  

The symphony of man’s delight

is but a passing tune,

now waxing, and then waning,

like seasons of the Moon.

  

What magnitude of counterpoint

beholds the greater me,

when casting back its freedom

like winds across the sea.

  

The greatest love a man beholds,

like the tiddler on a line;

must yet, by self, be cast back to

a freedom, beyond time.

  

Where all is one, and one is all,

is a mere lesson for a boy;

while MAN is now the affirmation

of a vast eternal joy.

 

 

Of what, and when, and how, and why,

the knowing will come clear

if time you make with quiet mind,

and communicative ear.

 

What then comes amid the calm,

whatever be its name,

the wing like voice of insight pleads,

“Go forth, and do the same !”

 

How provest thou of what is known,

in rhyme, or verse, or prose,

where awareness was the essence,

before the thought arose?!

 

Where nothing was excluded;

though only briefly dwelt,

the mono-pole existence

wherein no pain was felt.

 

But if the mind denies itself

and turns its face away,

then the glory that is man’s by right,

won’t see the light of day.

 

So how can man discover,

that which, by truth, is best ?

Unleash the ties of ego’s grasp;

Meta-Aesthesis, Consummatum Est.

 

 

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