Half of the moon might be hidden,
But it still exists as part of a whole,
A coin with craters
Perpetually placed into the prayphone
Of the night sky, vague and vast,
Sufficient space for the dreamers to wander,
Sending their spirits skyward,
As if every star were a telephone pole,
Constellations connecting wishes
To be played on Godís answering machine.
There is no past or future,
Only an ethereal confinement to the present state
With our self sown senses fabricating time
As a means of recalling
And relating ourselves to the
Physical changes we witness
In the world around us.
The phases of the moon are an illusion,
A path through the uniform fabric of energy,
Apart from the cycle of time.
Remember, the moon only acts as a mirror,
Reflecting a secondhand image
Of the sunís pure potential,
Which, in turn, projects its face
On a peaceful pond, forming a reflection of a reflection
As we skip mind stones over the surface
Of a watered down reality,
Till our stones lose their momentum
And slip beneath perceptionís rippled veneer,
Only to have our inner forms float upwards
Once death has separated the body from the spirit,
And the weight on our metaphysical shoulders is lifted,
Allowing us to raise our heads to the heavenís high and absorb
The enlightened dawn of another step towards infinity.
The rays of our lives emanate
From a raging ball of fire,
Burning with the cycle,
Round and round in a revolution,
That can only end where it began.