I found the following poem I wrote back in 2008 that conveys in words aspects about “the source”.  I thought I’d share it here.

Crisp accents.

Orange milieu.

Troubled crickets chirping.

Ruffled leaves backdrop against sunlight.

Amidst the ruffles lie intersections.

At the intersections at the very edges, points, rays and sharpness lie uncertainty.

In the shades lie shadows.

In common these all have blurs.

And in the blurs resides the doorway to:

The source.


Within the source exist pinpoint light.

Like sun rays diffracting off the tips of the eyelashes of squinted eyes.

The diffracting tips makes points almost like the floaters of single cell creatures swimming in Brownian motion across the view.

The floaters, the diffracting tips are all gateways to the source.

The source is that small quiet voice within.

Walk softly for it almost seeks to be ignored and overlooked.


But overlook it not

It is a powerful beacon of truth.

Mover of things.

Within the source lies bright light.

Within the light is the tunnel to darkness.

And within the darkness once again is the source.

The tunnel of light.

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