The Unmaking Poem by Mystic Qalandar

Once the eye is clear,
the pupil drinking in that single light,
the road behind is ash.
The world of mirrors shatters.
There is no path back to the ghost.

We have been nursed
on the milk of the mirage,
the murmuring of the deep sleep.
The stage is set, the roles are read,
and we have worn them
like a second skin,
until the skin became the cage.

The first step is a fall.
The heart, a startled bird.
Yet move.
Let the crown of thorns
be a crown of humility.
Let your tongue be still,
and your ear, a shell,
listening for the echo of the first syllable,
the one uttered before the world began.

The voice, the ancient voice,
the one that is both question and answer,
still sounds from the core of your own silence:
'Am I not the Unfolding? '
And the self, the small self, the ravenous ghost,
must answer in its own tongue.

Once you have seen the serpent
coiled in your own ribcage,
tasting its own tail,
how can you reach again
for the fruit of division?
The glint of the transient,
the bargain with the shadow,
the temples built on sand.

You begin to see the signs
etched in the marrow of the bone.
The prayers you once whispered to the void
now rise up to meet you,
turning inward, answering themselves
in the deep well of your own becoming.

Doubt is a dry riverbed.
Confusion, a cloud passing.
The second thought, the one born of fear,
crumbles into the dust of its own making.

And when you find that key
upon the threshold of your own heart—
the very one you have carried
since before the dawn of time—
the mind, that monkey
leaping from branch to branch,
at last abandons its meaningless restlessness.
The gate that was never truly locked
swings wide open.

The phantoms, the old companions,
the fears that shaped the architecture of your days,
dissolve in the light of the witness.
You are no longer the wanderer
on the road that leads to all roads.

For the road is you,
and the destination is you,
returning to the source,
the wellspring of a single note,
the silence from which all wisdom hums,
and to which every soul,
in its own time,
is gently returned.

MyKoul