Flat out yet face up

It is as a bomb shelter

in a holocaust.

It is also a sacred site,

all at the same time.

It is, in time and timeless

but slipping into time.

All things are at once

but then again and again.

My being is quartered

by pulling forces

in these four directions;

a greased pole of many voices,

the barking of disputed claims,

there is what drums

and its reverberations,

and fourth, somehow,

lag time and fallout.

These are recorded

as miseries in footsteps

across an emotion beach.

But what of sorrow

is ever washed away?

If my candle is blown out,

and I have thrown it

into the sea,

why does it float back,

bobbing into my mind

cluttered with a rubbish dump

of visions,

full of broken symbols

demanding of me?

There is nothing

to mend by deed.

This procession has tears

of termination

dripped all over it,

like a unforeseen edge

to an unexpected cliff

or more succinctly

how a severe accident

has the magnetic attraction

to next views

but of course unanticipated

as shocking becomes

a way of life.

None of this arises from within

the overshadowed dullness

of now.

What lives as hurt

has impacted boundaries.

This is wrapped in oblivion

un-tapered by next inner faces

standing physically too close

and loud breathy voices

damp into my ears.

None of these impressions

alters its timelessness.

Reality is tightly gripping a pen,

pointed down

on to the page of now.

For what scrawl of venom

can come from that?

Standing-room-only stench

is just a term

I use for something staring back,

accusing me.

And me saying to it

you are more self-reflective

of perception as a style itself

yet naming things names like;

vapid, random, and void,

humans, disparagement,

and disasters.

There are so many

down turned faces

all crowded into the same place

and yet four million Bic lighters

are sold daily

then lit, held up,

into the dark skyward,

with faces turned up,

eyes wide,

these flames, slightly reflecting

from almost seven billion people.

What are the odds?

How much of that light is shared?

From it, there is this whiteness

that gives no frame.

It has a savagery

of silence about it.

There are no handrails,

no orientations or directions

and possibly the loss

of up and down.

There is the loss of the rhythm

for the spoken words.

But there are transcending tones

in human voices.

Meaning does not

wash over or cleanse me.

It buries me in past moments

as meanings stack up

like a wet mud,

carrying its own

muted embodiment

of viscous as vicious.

Yet, upon closer inspection,

there is a eternal whiteness

within this mud

as time is this sludge

taking my pulse.

What then from beyond,

makes my heart bother to beat?

And why, of all the people,

am I telling YOU, any of this?

For any context you prescribe

is a method of devotion.

Consciousness is of itself sacred.

Living is this prayer.

The God of you listens

and compassionately responds.

What you humanly share

of that inner process

gives light to the world of others.

Oneness brews from such

self-loving paradoxical means.