Who tuned the wire beneath my chest? Whose breath moves through this borrowed vest? I blink, and time folds back its hand, I speak, I hear, but do I understand?
Was I a shape before the name? A pulse inside a wordless frame? The ink was dry before I knew, So then who writes this as I do?
This skin feels stitched from older dust, Yet bends to grief, for love and trust, But if I’m more than flesh and bone, Why do I fear to die alone?
The soul, perhaps a tilt in light, A field that hums beneath the night, No wings, no fire, no pure design, But something raw that points to mine.
I don’t remember being born, Just the sound of silence, split and torn, And when I go, what will remain? The hands? The words? The ash? The flame?
Once again beautifully rendered about how short our time is. Unless you are in the news in a way that is remembered by almost everyone on earth or you are part of a dynasty that lives on down through the ages, the chance of being remembered is quite slim.
The best way to be remembered is to have one of these beautiful poetry lines appear before millions in a book, a movie or through online viral pick up.
This book presents a narrative story of one person's journey of transcendental Awakening and Enlightenment as guided by his two Sage companions. It is grounded in Zen Buddhist and Taoist perspective and uses the I Ching as its structural framework. T
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The best way to be remembered is to have one of these beautiful poetry lines appear before millions in a book, a movie or through online viral pick up.
Ron