My Poetry, Philosophy, Thoughts and Ideas.


The Present

In contact with senses, in each moment
Arises the myriad objects in accrument
To name, To identify, is mind’s excitement
In the path that leads to self indictment

From stillness, that springs each moment
Arises the form, from formless incitement
To be, Or not to be, remains the predicament
As long as transcendence remains an adjournment

In flicker of hope, is each moment
lies wisdom's treasure in confinement
To see, to observe, I's absentment
is the path that leads to self-enlightenment


Anonymous Anonymous said...

Excellent poems.

7:02 AM


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