Which Was, and Is, and Is to Come

Which Was, and Is, and Is to Come

Timelessness is vague, I'm told
until I press for that specific moment
to express what truth is all about,
to shout back to the rooftops
that their god is centuries too late,
too willing to discriminate, too wise
for the unborn to catch him
in their consciousness without
a crumbling passport scribbled
on their knees.

I call upon those rooftop prophets
to forswear their hubris for a moment;
wear their sackcloth loosely,
binding neither souls nor progeny
for a millenium or two, until
the light is better, all the voices stop,
and out of nothingness emerges
the divine illusion that is ours.

It is the only source--out there
along the fence-rows where
the howling wolves patrol,
the sky is ever blanked by snow
and every sigh sent out is unreturned.

There is the refuge;
there the realm of God,
where senses fall--where stillness
is the cornucopia, and where
I Am is understood. The voice
grows fainter still, until
it may be heard alone
and wordless
and totality is known.
~