Traveling, Mists Come
A motion is felt, the move of land
is a world now alive to misty being.
Passing is perceived, empty the way
A man is thrown to lurching illusion
his genius is there, but rarely seen.
As he wins or loses, it matters not.
It's recognizing possibility of intent
and its relationship to his intention
the unseen mystery of his interior
illuminated by self-remembering
and liberated by higher measure
his genius is the principle act for.
Turning great diversity into consort
revealing the genuine man within
a compendium within outer chaos
emptiness that moves the cosmos
and all at once still void, paradox.
The Tao symbolizes this in elegance.
Like a drum, the eagle percusses
shocking the stream into waves
rising, with silent bleats, in wind.
The word is a prism of us in one
whose genius reverbs in an Om
a sound with shine of the aplomb.
A mind may dream such insight
in wordless act, indescribable
for seeing, preeminent, eternal
as much the fish as water when
swimming is for the fallen spirit
and man, one wayward station.
Sounds of my carriage circulate
in ears to points of material map
my golden steed's heedless step
met-a-for_mer whinny in a neigh
longing for wildest love to prevail
for a tour that travels everywhere.
And yet, a call beyond destiny
boggles travel, as mists come
just entering a gate, fey inclines
one must be open in this way
before the way opens to one.
Look inward unto inner find...
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