Not Even

We like to speak in metaphors and similes –
each creature possesses a magic language
that can often make things seem to be
something other than they are.
All of us are story tellers,
gathered around the campfire
of our own thoughts and memories,
every story a blossoming universe where
the hopes and fears of innumerable beings
arise and dissolve in perfect synchronicity.
Permeated through and through
by the potent fragrance of vast emptiness –
each story is nothing other than a transmission
of Love to itself for the sake of its own enjoyment.
Just so, in the space between stories,
everything is falling, falling through itself
like a strange and beautiful song without words,
not obscured in the dustiness of dry speculations,
wry revelations, or faux epiphanies concocted
in the sanctum of a dark and lonely night.
The way of surrender is not a planned event.
Who wants their favorite story to end?
Who plans to fall in love to death?
Who can bear the disappointment
when it becomes apparent that,
despite every earnest effort
or liberation scheme,
nothing really happens —
no miraculous transformation,
no hallelujah chorus of applause
from the gallery, no praise, no fame,
no flowers strewn by the still fresh grave
to fill the vacancy left by the death of resistance,
the death looming between us and all we thought we were,
the clue to the story’s undoing — not a blessed thing, not a sorry,
sane, or sometimes thing, not a tender, touched, or terrible thing,
neither this nor that nor even at last, beneath falling skies, a sigh.

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