Praveen Kumar

A sticky rubber mass is Self;
It is neither here nor there,
Too heavy to fly, to light to fall;
It sticks, yet slips
And sinks, yet floats;
While carries itself in emotion’s flood,
It plays on surface too.

It speaks in stillness of silence
And acts in numbness of sleep,
Unseen, untouched, unheard anywhere,
Through the web of creeps of experience
That meshes the Self to gentle incarceration;
Its antenna picks signals
Of touch, taste and fragrance too,
From far and wide.

Self is invisible, yet all pervasive,
Self is all void, yet, the womb of existence
And speeds with light, touches all heights;
It absorbs all, it effuses all
While itself sits still like Cynosure in North Sky;
Self is ignorance, Self is all knowledge,
Self is black hole that processes celestial light.

Self is soul and body, Self is love and pride
That makes I, I and the world, that world
That lights darkness and spawns attachment;
Self is subtle force that ignites life-process;
Though pure and transpicious like crystal prism,
Shocks and strains surface opaque scratches on the Self
And refractions mess up its splendid colour spectrum
And self sticks and stings in impure from.