Constellations
Souls venture outside Biology, once, as I of recent history.
Meandering beyond the known Universe, embraced both Light
And Darkness--- impervious to gamma rays, breathing in solar winds
Blown from nearby star systems. An atmosphere of ions hoped to
Bring a realization far from the bounded, corporeal existence of the Self:
That in the infinite scheme of everything, Love is more a constant than Gravity.
( And I hear the orchestra of the Constellations, in pentatonic scales they sang the perfection of Time,
as a dimension, from which planet-bound souls cling, unknowing).
For what is existence adjacent to reality?
Newtonian reality? Einstein’s reality? Quantum reality? None but prearranged thoughts,
A mathematical expression of Chaos, a mind struggling for reason and order.
But the Heart; the Heart is not bidirectional. Rooted deeply within the trajectory of the Soul,
It is a Compass to the true North, once set, can never be swayed but find its Purpose.
“Your purpose being?” asked fleetingly a comet destined for combustication.
“Your understanding is but transient,” replied I. Knowledge does not presuppose Destiny.
(The overtures of the Stars welcomed my ethereal self, illuminating me
as my atoms danced with the music of the Heavens).
Orion, our Constellation, was my Being’s sole entanglement. A blissful repository
Of dreams and emotions long forgotten as our nucleus decayed over time---Our Half-life.
Whatever Evolution accomplished the past millions of years, my lone wish, my Dearest, is this:
Somehow, to isolate a Wormhole, tame its wild lashes of shifting Gravitational pull.
Travel through its light and dark recesses, conquering the space-time variations.
And finally, rest this wearied Traveller on the white, sandy beaches of the Cosmos.
I wish to hold your soft hands and never let go.
Meandering beyond the known Universe, embraced both Light
And Darkness--- impervious to gamma rays, breathing in solar winds
Blown from nearby star systems. An atmosphere of ions hoped to
Bring a realization far from the bounded, corporeal existence of the Self:
That in the infinite scheme of everything, Love is more a constant than Gravity.
( And I hear the orchestra of the Constellations, in pentatonic scales they sang the perfection of Time,
as a dimension, from which planet-bound souls cling, unknowing).
For what is existence adjacent to reality?
Newtonian reality? Einstein’s reality? Quantum reality? None but prearranged thoughts,
A mathematical expression of Chaos, a mind struggling for reason and order.
But the Heart; the Heart is not bidirectional. Rooted deeply within the trajectory of the Soul,
It is a Compass to the true North, once set, can never be swayed but find its Purpose.
“Your purpose being?” asked fleetingly a comet destined for combustication.
“Your understanding is but transient,” replied I. Knowledge does not presuppose Destiny.
(The overtures of the Stars welcomed my ethereal self, illuminating me
as my atoms danced with the music of the Heavens).
Orion, our Constellation, was my Being’s sole entanglement. A blissful repository
Of dreams and emotions long forgotten as our nucleus decayed over time---Our Half-life.
Whatever Evolution accomplished the past millions of years, my lone wish, my Dearest, is this:
Somehow, to isolate a Wormhole, tame its wild lashes of shifting Gravitational pull.
Travel through its light and dark recesses, conquering the space-time variations.
And finally, rest this wearied Traveller on the white, sandy beaches of the Cosmos.
I wish to hold your soft hands and never let go.
