the world has its own rythym

the world has its own rythym, one not heard but felt and deep in the heart its pounding collapses the walls of the chambers until one giant pulse rocks the body like a wave thrusting into the ocean again and again. there is no end to the universal life the unbearable completion, totality resting in dualities and trialities and billions of fractions of the eternal self. existence alone endures all, waits for everyone, sleeps like the dead risen to experience the nothing that life truly is, one decaying second after the next while never remains unchanged. is there life in this life or after life or during the passage of lives? who lives undeterred by the beauty or the horror the bliss or the despair, what tiny self manages to explode from its cell its magnificent creation into the chambered awareness that awaits each expansion, each bursting of the membrane and loses its self in the terror of release and the failure of its final reasoning, the worlds never end, the mind expands as the flesh mutates from raw existence to multi ganglioned duplicities, unstoppable need, dreams of fear and the flight of billions of souls seeking sanctuary where none exists, the steps to the cathedral are endless and the minions of the warden wait at every turn, the light shines reflected from a billion surfaces but none reveals its source. what is the life but constant panic and confusion, filled with mindless respites that empty all into a river of doubt and desperation, what life exists but the dream we vanish into, i cannot sleep but wait for eternity and all its followers to return.