I have suspended disbelief before a thousand scriptures
as I've eased myself into knowing this world.
I have asked, watched, listened and I have read
but the secrets have alway been inside.
And everything outside has always been
just smoke in the morning trees.
Neither action or intention, nor word or form are there
and all science and reason lie without.
It is no servant of words or names, this
where, the clocks are dumb and time has gone still.
You speak of Krishna or Vishnu, of Buddha and Jesus
but these are just shadows on the wall
of the candle that burns within
that center of being that wells from within itself.
Scripture is the trim that adorns the door
outside the place that contains the beloved.
Tags: Poem, Poetry
This entry was posted on Thursday, March 22nd, 2007 at 21:00 and is filed under Poetry, The Perfect Storm. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed.
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