Conveyed,
sustained mechanically inside,
never seeing the whole,
creeping,
as though afraid of repercussions,
no sense of leap,
no leap of sense...

Contained,
as though dead,
or might death be a moment of relief,
of challenge,
of excitement,
of glimpses beyond the facades
...of seeing?

but really,
why play games?
just mimicking the past ,
as though it were good enough,
as though you never wanted to say:
"This was my life, mine alone,
and no-one could feel there was more could happen." ?

Is this then a sign of defect of the 'heart'
or just the 'contented' deceit of self,
propagated misdirection,
even of its protagonists,
into dying insidiously of its 'comfort' ?
yet have they said to you:
"No other goal could be more important" ?

but is this not the fault of 'importance' itself,
that complacent concept,
even in denying its own insufficiency?

What shines then,
what belief?

Quickly then,
do not condemn yourself
to the warm blindness,
but suffer
in strange joy of knowing
love of truth
and the truth of love
that it is life
and life is nothing else...

There is more for us to know
inside
by facing the never-solved,
never-finished
... without hiding,
and thus knowing why one
journeys without end,
seeking beyond finding,
so suddenly then
feeling wholly alive for a change.

... rather than
sitting in the valley
smoking your own soul...