Death Poetry

Decay and death, the aspiration of a seeker

For all the wonderful lines in poetic imagery, I die and become one again with the deepening me

The moment comes or it ends

The body lay in cold water, almost bloated. the fissures look blue, is there scope to be green? for its pastures to feed the Cow, the Gopasya Gopi The Vedic chants eulogized the cow milk, ghee and its lubrication to prepare for cremation.

The musculature, eyes, organs and everything skin supple and tangible, sticking out of the throat, elbows marked with albinism spots, the dryness ensues the death and decay of a being, Can you tell me where memories start and end? Is there any continuity?

For all that moves, stills, stable in the armour of lust for life. But no one stays perennial, the world can be abysmal, in cohorts with the dread and despair of sadness. I can see you in dreams, in living expanses filled with beating life, horses ready to graze on new grass. Can you see what I see?

For death is a timely caution, it’s a beginning not an end in the scheme of things, the musings colour the smoke that fuelled the fire. The becoming and unbecoming of a soul, wanting to be inside a body. Whether the cause of death is brutal or not, everyone wants to be trapped in Maya.

For Maya is an illusion, in unison we lay inside the world view of darkness, Darkness is thrilling, but there is no truth in it. Search for your truths yourself, the beginning often offsets the moment you are born, think of time as an inversion, not progression, all things are predestined, what matters is we give in to the tricks of the mighty Godly clock.

Burning the karmic hold

The bare bones stick out, together you go, Polish the tendons with ghee, in weakening penchant tree the branches span out, caricaturing a soluble design immersive in the consciousness of the karma people present in their lives.

It needs to die for it to begin, a life of misleading priorities, only to realize, all opportunities of living stand amiss. The food we eat, to develop our cells and organs, is all gone. The outer shades of skin, and pigments, all making you beautiful are not important today.

In a fallen sterile gaze, we try to see through the thoughts, are their actions worth the mystery, to tarnish the bygones. For who cares the man beneath the lump of flesh lay? All havoc will lay bare, all accusations will start, not knowing, Is there any attempt to stop it? Pop your nether ears and listen like an Elf. Come back from the dead to see your image dragged to denudation.

The last gaze

I see it, the fumes spread the aura, and the smell is sweet. For maybe the man underneath you like sweets. I could smell you in the aura, as flames grow thicker. The redness envelopes the yellow flames, is this your rage about not being able to see your own funeral?

We cremate the death, for life is never about clinging to the past. Souls come and go. They unwrap their bodies. But they do want to get back. They are anchors to the Brahman or the Paramatma. A soul is a purer extension. To merge, it needs purity. No way it can bend and mend its ways in the presence of Maya or illusion.

The entrapping of the blood and muscle wall is a figment of imagination. In every observable action, the energies radiate inside. For life seeps out but the subconscious subsumes to the reality of today, being one with the cosmos, burning in passions alight, marking the route to travel from Goddess Shakti (Primordial force) to God Shiva (Transient consciousness)

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