An eddy of fury and flurry,
Mighty gods churned the abyss.
Thoughts whirled in the grip of Force;
Memories long forgotten washed out,
Pains dug out bleeding red,
Eager claws of hatred and wrath,
Python coils of fear and crawl,
All the pus and wounds of the past
Held by the rocks of denial
Came flying across the sight.
Engines of change spared nothing;
Every nook and cranny of past
They dug with mighty strokes
Releasing the waters of life
Locked in the groves of time.
Deep breath and stone stillness
Held the body safe and calm
While the gods stormed the forts.
A seer within silent watched
The war and conquest,
The house of being washed
Fresh and clean from the stains
Of a forgotten past lurking within.
1 comment:
the churning happens daily in the fledgling meditator's consciousness. passions are wrathful gods. the silent sage is the witness. the poem is a good metaphor for the inner battle.
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