SCRIPT
The politics of throwing babies into the blazing hearth.
The myth must rise above all choices of good and evil.
Joy and suffering are characters that come and go,
They have their own scripts.
And no matter how erudite we believe we are,
No matter how much better.
The cycles of myth will do away
With our little stories of greatness,
The prattle of improvement,
Our enfeebled longevity,
Our chaotic randomised knowledge
Of nothing in particular.
In the end we justify conflict
Or run in madness to the wilderness,
Feathered in terror and forgetting.
(There is a myth for that one too).
The pocket watch has free will –
It can stop or go.
But once the spring is tight,
Each cog must do what it has been assigned.
And what truth anyway is greater
Than slowing the passage of time
And the moment that time stops?
The dance begins, the dance ends.
In eternal halls the dance is never tiresome.
Memory, to the gods, is an irrelevance.
‘But there must be more!’
Is also a line woven into the myths,
A function of the equation.
Descartes horribly right,
But still missing the point.
Act, because you must, O Arjuna.
—
simonhlilly 