Of how there is this,
only this,
a sensory awareness akin to bliss,
a blossoming of creation,
words and consciousness strung
to a loom of desire so intense
it could never hope
to be satisfied.

In the moon flow of our nature,
we know there is nothing but learning–
all a lesson,
all a student before love,
all a teacher before weakness,
all an unreclaimable glory
pointing its way to beauty
like a sunset–
just like any other,
never to be the same.

Words are necessarily cryptic
in order to say exactly what you know
I mean.
Your body never lies.
It is what lies outside of your sensory understanding
that is illusion.


Author: manderson

I live in NYC.

One thought on “Maya”

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