Life paints itself,
Infinitely flooding with flow & form & feature.
It loves so mercilessly it cares not
About the collisions & catastrophes,
The exploding eruptions of its unfettered freedom of expression.
Life is so full of itSelf,
Every drop of its colour is bursting with its own potence.
All at once it is unbound yet formed,
Every space on its canvas occupied by this shameless Exhibtionist,
Pulses with the depth and width of its own Intelligence.
In this play of Creation, some of its expression
Is in full flawless awareness of the breadth of its Glorious Self.
More of it, conscious of its possibilities but not of its
Infinitely indisputable Perfection.
Most of it is asleep to the
Vastness of its own Splendour,
Not knowing more than it’s immediate berth,
Or that it’s colour is made of the entire spectrum of Being.
And so expending only part of its Intelligence
It mistakenly decides
It is governed by itself.
Believing it is separately powerful
It fears its own loss.
In the confusion between a partly forgotten knowing
And an attempt to arrest immortality,
A war is waged that can’t be won.
A battle there was never any need for
Because the paint wars only on itself.
It will try its hand at its misguided reckoning of order,
Its limited reasoning of might.
Do not be afraid.
The struggle of the paint forms rivers of gold
Streams of depth and richness
That will merge with the frontiers of the canvas.
Life cloaks its Truth so that its painting may attempt its own magnificence
The paint can only war on the surface of its still, tranquil Abyss.
Fruitless will be every one of these pitiful endeavors,
Until they reach an exhausted resignation.
Relinquishing all delusional constructs.
And Its enduringly secret