Message from an Avatar
@ 3 a.m.
Howzit going, my little chicken,
bambino, earwig, chutzpah, microbino
down there, in the churned-up field,
the ploughed up mess of unseen
new beginnings?
The topsy turveyed chaos of endings
and final thrashings and turnings
of the stale and exhausted soil
of your forgotten garden?
Does the mess look a veritable mess?
Those nice plans, plots and scenarios
all dug up, botched and broken?
From where you stand
at the ends of your sorry eyes and souls
does it seem like a horror movie
surveying your nightmare investment
In tatters
the bad eggs come home to roost
in the shattered graves of ego and illusion.
Howzit feel there, tossed in the mayhem of your own making?
The old order recycled and composting
for other worlds to come.
The four points of the compass
folded in with the collapsing elements,
polarities and dimensions
to one amorphous cosmic egg.
Your gardening experiment, full cycle, done.
What’s left, but you and you
with you, without yours
divested of your honours and benefits?
The synthetic paraphernalia and artifice
of your erstwhile life-support of no avail
as you scrabble about the foxy topography of spacetime;
no chance, interest or purpose left
nor wherewithal, to drag it out and on
when the consequences of your sojourn
- of where you got to and did not, as far as you did -
are patently obvious
in the immensely long-suffering evolutionary process
- your brief contract and fleeting span in the sun -
like the swarming mayflies short dance
soon dead, bobbing away
on the broad back of Life’s lovely river
un-mindful of their pretty flight
and the weight of their tiny wings.
Like the mists of dawn rising
hefting your nothingness off and away;
dissipating substance and form
in the out-breath and sigh of my sorrow
-safe in the universe’s mighty palm.
Feb