What Ya Are
Just what are you? You're not your clothes, your shiny car or phone.
You're not your job, your friends, your faith, your hobbies or your home.
You're not your bank account, your properties, or anything you own.
You're not your body, or traits assigned through your genome.
You don't beat your heart, nor breathe your breath. With half your body gone,
there's still a scrappy spark that soldiers on. Just what are you?
If, and when you still your mind and take a look with sword not drawn,
you'll find an energy, sublime and pure, that air blows through.
You'll find that you are nothing. Your thoughts of you are paint,
beneath which, no vestige exists. You are not corporeal,
but wickless flame. Everything you thought you were, you ain't!
No Being, whose wiles and wits are tied to the sensorial,
will ever know the kingdom that's beyond the bonds of time.
or ever know the spirit of a nameless god, as it's own Soul.
The day will come when all will want to clean away the grime
that blocks their sight to fight and gain back Light Persona stole.
This world is full of folks whose souls are choking on the crap
their monkey brains imported with a vengeance. So entranced with 'I'
and 'Me', they never learned to Be, so now they're in a trap,
addicted and indentured to a thug with an evil eye.
One's real 'I', waits outside the gates of Hell, within whose hold
we carry on our zombie ways. Until the work to stake
a claim on who and what we really are occurs, we just grow old
and die, to richen up the soil for something else's sake.