They all seem to be one, and at each other.

I keep moving between one and the other one, shifting, always shifting.

The light is the same, it just…I find my mind in one sometimes and my body in the other.

This house with its one-hundred windows. I’ve counted every one of them. I have walked along the long hall; room to room and look out of each and every one. And I see a different reality in each.

I’m looking between the cracks in some, searching for what holds the images together.

What are you going to do when the hot brand hits your back? The shock the fear now; your world is destroyed and you are finally awake after such… a long time. Of your eyes; they are now open and cold color and the textures arrive and make you sick; the shadows on that grotto wall seem to turn in carousel nursery rhythms that are sung to you by terrible children.

Wind blistered lip curls the tear and blurt curses at the world; you were lied too and all that you know is inverted nonsense. That stab in your heart felt betrayal is known and no one left to trust. But one must trust, and easy Nightingale songs rush into your mind… they soothe and lead to mistrust of yourself.

The mystic is no help here now… And these long days and painful walks to distract the messenger within. You are finally alone now; you thought you were alone, but now you ‘are’ alone…now.

Shiva dances in the window and the dust rises from a trans-gendered God stepping.

The slaughtered children, now are butchered for their very organs.

Are we there yet? Has that bus arrived on time.

Armageddon pushes news prophets to speak their final message. And they will start wondering what their wage is in all of this.

Shiva in the window, Shiva in the window.

Lunatics are loosed, and the sane they populate asylums.

And shadow man, he speaks and no one answers in his lingo.

Are we the last natural, and no time left to die; we scoop up all our possessions and put them in a battered box.

This place I am in here now, is it a Bardo?

Am I stuck here now, caught in between this wheel of life.

The past, present and future all defunct; the end of history.

And the pied piper of the Internet and his penny whistled voyeur tunes. Commits to them and asks them for their suicide of minds. Memory fades and in the place of self.

The place of man and father… The place of lover in eternal Spring. The place of heart all worn. The place that centered and which all the rest surrounds.

The place of artist and mandala in the deep deepest place.