Autumn Leaves Fell Silent Satori in Deserts of a War Spirit Wandering Humanity's Silent Stupor

Verily, at the earliest hour of dawn, luminous awakening,

Flash of insight strikes,

Humanity at heart remains in its deepest stupor;

Life and death occur at every instance;

Time only distinguishes itself from the

succession of each moment by

appearance of distance, sequence,

and the play of

separation veiling its web of ever flowing

stasis.

Every action reverberates into this stream

of eternity; For No action or virtue here

will

ever be left without repercussion.

Fate and fortune determine our course,

our trajectory, while the whole world

stops and looks upon with envy at every

juncture at those spirits possibly roused

by kensho;

That the heart, the spirit, should always

remember, therefore, the many passing masks of

convenience seldom reveal their truest self

or bare essential secret.

That the whole world is nothing more

than a vast empty desert and play of

nothingness captured by metropolises of

flashing light.

As we wander,

Strangers to the most intimate discourse

and seemingly solid surroundings,

Hostage to elements in change perpetually,

Assault of heat and cold, fire, ice, hunger,

Thirst,

The end is nigh and already here, but,

many still earnestly wait in desolation,

alas, animated corpses sitting among

municipal city benches, waiting for memories

to at once return hither with both vigor

and vivacity: Laughter. Tears. Cries.

Rejoices. Victories. Failures. Faint echoes grasping at the

distant past and the future

never came;

Thus we motion, that those objects,

sometimes of sad and sometimes of

happy disposition, flash in ones orbit,

appear like stardust in those eternal

heavens above. At times it does seem we

walk through living death, nothingness

captured by the prisms of time, witness to their many

stories and fate: for company which is but a ghost

beholden, though magnificent in its

appearance, never actually there.

We but move through nothingness at

every possible permutation.

We are already dead. Families, friends, partners.

The verdict, for a life made of personable

lies, is either liberty from this waking

dream, or, to plunge recklessly into the

shadows of death with the proverbial

sword of

wisdom in hand, for a spirit, that has,

already, many times, by convention, died.