The Only Game Is You
I.
The world is a palestra of anxieties,
A spectacle of wrongs and iniquities,
And a vale of tears watering the rising
Orchids of our discontent.
It is a threshing floor of temptations for the unwary,
And a churning sea, turbid with the color
Of false hopes and virtues so inadequate
In duration and amplitude.
You have read my words here many times,
But you have not truly heard me,
Preferring the savory illusions of your loins’ expectations,
And the flitting, dissolving mayas of your own erotic phantoms,
Which fade, softly, into the murky mist of memory,
Leaving you ever hungrier, O my brother, for
A food to nourish your soul, and detumesce the
Angry, swollen, and searching heart.
When will you believe what your eyes tell you,
And what your senses command you!
You know the problem, and you sense the solution.
Yet you lack the conviction to speak it, and to practice it.
Solace cannot be found in the endless chase of the material,
For this world, this mirror of vanities, withholds its
Pleasure as easily as it grants it, leaving you empty and
Seeking more and more, a ceaseless quest of the insatiate.
When will you hear me, you bondsman to your lusts,
You blind man on your blind journey?
You read me, but you do not feel me.
You endorse me, but you hear me not.
II.
The only game that there is, and that will ever be,
Is the game of You, and only You.
All else is illusion, a cruel joke, a heartless deceiver.
All solutions reside within you, and are there for your
Drawing, as raw sap is drawn from Vermont maple.
Nothing exists but you, you, as the Isthmus
Between the word of the corporeal, and
The world of the spiritual, the world of imagination.
The Isthmus divides and joins these two worlds,
As two seas that meet together, never overpassing.
It is you, this Isthmus, that separates the known
From the unknown, the existent from the nonexistent,
The negated from the affirmed, the understandable
From the incomprehensible.
You are the Isthmus, the joiner of the Two Worlds.
You, O Isthmus, separate the spirit world from the corporeal world,
And retaining elements of both.
Why do you not seek your true purpose?
Why do you not take your seat on this throne?
The only game there is, is the spiritual game of You, the game
Which improves your Soul, and
Fortifies you from this world’s ceaseless pantomime of injustice.
This polished and prepared Soul will then truly be the lordly
Isthmus, the arbiter of worlds, the mediator of its own fate.
And when you know this, and truly mediate between the Two Worlds,
As you were intended to,
You will become the master of all that is,
And all that will ever be.
QC
I.
The world is a palestra of anxieties,
A spectacle of wrongs and iniquities,
And a vale of tears watering the rising
Orchids of our discontent.
It is a threshing floor of temptations for the unwary,
And a churning sea, turbid with the color
Of false hopes and virtues so inadequate
In duration and amplitude.
You have read my words here many times,
But you have not truly heard me,
Preferring the savory illusions of your loins’ expectations,
And the flitting, dissolving mayas of your own erotic phantoms,
Which fade, softly, into the murky mist of memory,
Leaving you ever hungrier, O my brother, for
A food to nourish your soul, and detumesce the
Angry, swollen, and searching heart.
When will you believe what your eyes tell you,
And what your senses command you!
You know the problem, and you sense the solution.
Yet you lack the conviction to speak it, and to practice it.
Solace cannot be found in the endless chase of the material,
For this world, this mirror of vanities, withholds its
Pleasure as easily as it grants it, leaving you empty and
Seeking more and more, a ceaseless quest of the insatiate.
When will you hear me, you bondsman to your lusts,
You blind man on your blind journey?
You read me, but you do not feel me.
You endorse me, but you hear me not.
II.
The only game that there is, and that will ever be,
Is the game of You, and only You.
All else is illusion, a cruel joke, a heartless deceiver.
All solutions reside within you, and are there for your
Drawing, as raw sap is drawn from Vermont maple.
Nothing exists but you, you, as the Isthmus
Between the word of the corporeal, and
The world of the spiritual, the world of imagination.
The Isthmus divides and joins these two worlds,
As two seas that meet together, never overpassing.
It is you, this Isthmus, that separates the known
From the unknown, the existent from the nonexistent,
The negated from the affirmed, the understandable
From the incomprehensible.
You are the Isthmus, the joiner of the Two Worlds.
You, O Isthmus, separate the spirit world from the corporeal world,
And retaining elements of both.
Why do you not seek your true purpose?
Why do you not take your seat on this throne?
The only game there is, is the spiritual game of You, the game
Which improves your Soul, and
Fortifies you from this world’s ceaseless pantomime of injustice.
This polished and prepared Soul will then truly be the lordly
Isthmus, the arbiter of worlds, the mediator of its own fate.
And when you know this, and truly mediate between the Two Worlds,
As you were intended to,
You will become the master of all that is,
And all that will ever be.
QC