On a blank surface, completely inert
Dots converge as if aligning on a beam,
Stitching themselves into perceptible scratches,
Enlarging in interesting sketches.
When a question configures, models a silhouette,
It's a scratch - rushed or slow-moving
Searching for a place where textures are sawed,
Embodied in a sketch that can be read:
Once here, the scratches lose power,
Their captivating glamour and subsiding importance,
Dying, resting, dispersing any ornaments
In the still realm,
Where the first dot seeded.
This play of Mind - Leela, keeps one hooked
Rusting in a sour Samsara,
Tasting confusion and drama,
Following the scenes and images of Maya
Squashing in polarities,
Chasing ghosts, illusions of thoughts
Widely fascinated, believing it is real.
The surface alone is the distinctive Real,
That which never chases, but sees the chasing
Unaffectedly holding the dots, the stories,
The questioner dissolves.
Topic(s) of this poem: metaphysical
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