Suffer Me Not

To suffer the horror


of a psychopathic lie,


or let doors slam,


and in slamming


be timelessly crammed


in a lonely chamber


of the ‘individually’ damned.

 


For suffering was never a private affair.


It’s always shared,


(even if you’re not there).


 


And suffering the differing night


with its demons of threat and fright,


we notice false triumph in a curse


that twists love to rebirth


and rattles joy into drunken mirth


 


Yet we love them,


these drunken wreckers


of civilized form


we love them with passion


of endless night


as they kill us


on the inside,


the insane making us sane,


in a kingdom of fools


and a promised land betrayed,


afraid, afraid, afraid.


 


Wonder, wonder and wonder on


this circling trail of mind


(dot, dot, dot).


 


Wonder.


Until the 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 a 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.