To suffer the horror
of a psychopathic lie,
or let doors slam,
and in slamming
be eternity crammed
in a despairing loft
of the ‘individually’ damned.
For suffering was never a private affair.
It’s always shared,
(even when we’re not there).
And suffering the differing night
with demons of threat and fright,
we notice triumph in a curse
that twists love to rebirth
and rattles joy to drunken mirth
Yet we love them,
the drunken wreckers
of civilized form
we love with passion
of endless night
as they kill us
from the inside out,
insanity making us sane,
in a kingdom of fools
a promised land betrayed,
afraid, afraid, afraid.
Wonder, wonder and wonder on
this circling trail of mind
(dot, dot, dot).
Wonder.
Until mind dies again
with the old storyteller
stabbed and gone
without a word,
and the seeker
(more lost than ever)
disinheriting herself
in precious paradox
as truth explodes
in sacred source
where nothing
is full of it all
and emptiness is free.
That holy inner realm
of silent sound
undulating
before it is heard.
Georgi Y. Johnson
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