On Watch
If it’s sore, it’s sore.
If it’s hard, it’s hard, I say.
And if no sun is in store,
I turn to an essay.
Why conjure up imaginary notions?
Why stir within myself divided motions?
Why must I know that I am in the flow,
Or need to be myself again, although?
Or soothe myself when evil starts to show,
And softly stroke and pamper the ego.
Or wear myself away through force and strain,
When breath alone can free me from that pain.
All those who struggle do so, then,
Just not to have to do it all again..
So what if you feel rooted to the spot!
It’s not as though a fire were burning hot..
We’re wrong to think an absolute is something to attain,
So in the dream we’re lost in, we torment ourselves again.
The Cardboard Man feels so at ease in peace.
As he satisfies himself, he sees himself increase,
And so the lie he likes grows with him, piece by piece.
What does he never do, in truth, in deed?
Unravel thought’s illusion, live through the chest instead,
Ignoring the Forest for a concept in his head.
What perceives repose is flow,
And out of stillness lets its pride dissolve and go.
What sees the flaw in thee,
If not the filth in me?
What finds beauty in the unsightly..
When thought’s been felled entirely?
Who would feel dissonance…?
With substance in their inward stance.
Or what sits still and judges all,
When it’s not conscious, not at all.
If it hurts, let it cry.
If it’s hard, let it die.
Why must it be other than all this..
When it can be humble, as it is..