The Bruhgie Man

You. Me. This thing we share is endless. Can I make any sense of it all, can these words do any good?. We only understand words through their relations, imagery through images, images through scenes, scenes through stories, and what then? What does it build to if anything?

The great mystery, The dark beyond dark,

The eternal reoccurrence, The door to all beginnings,

I know you now. To name is to know,

To know is to see, to see is to believe,

and to speak is to deceive.

The shaman’s cave goes deep.

Perhaps the darkness is our salvation.

Two eyes witness the way,

But the trees have been cut and the fruits trampled.

This labour leads only to destitution.

The snake rushes ahead and devours itself whole.

I carry with me a dangerous blade,

But they have already slit the throat of the prophet,

and so what cannot be washed will be cleansed by fire,

And every false light will be destroyed,

And the arsonists will revel in their creation.

And finally, in the passion of the end,

When the will is broken and the soul is strong,

And all that we have built is ashes,

What is there to express,

In passion or in emptiness?

Can words be booked

Or are they all for play?

The dragon chases its tail.

The moon’s path is fixed.

The truest metaphor has no meaning.

Observance tells us,

From one there is two,

Or from none there is division,

Or from division there is fragmentation.

In the dualism of light and dark,

Light arises from darkness,

But there can be no dark without light.

Perhaps that is why it is said

The beginning is a dark beyond dark

Is it then, that the end, is a light beyond light?

Or a diminished light, fading back into the night?

Or then, if it is so, as it is, and never shall be,

Can it truly be called immortal?

Does the sea eventually return all things?

And where are we to return, if we have never left,

And always been where we are?

Is there anywhere left to go, any beginnings to begin?

Words chasing words chasing words chasing words,

Endless and forever and never to be,

But only to become.

I could make it easy; I could make it true.

Words do not reveal, they point.

I could point to it and leave it be,