Illusions

In the blank stare of the moon,
the paralysis of a mountain's corpse,

and the silent music of a spring meadow
laying itself down before me,

are the clues as my mind
heads to a point of comprehension,

one at which I am enriched not by meaning
but by the hush of the moment.

I follow an aimless stream, that motion of All,
as it flows along the edge of my consciousness.

But I am of my senses and of curiosity,
a combination meant to instill meaning.

And so, when a wind calls, I will heed its beckoning,
its vacant promises and devotional force.

And when death arrives with its black velvet gloves,
it shall molder me peacefully into the countless specks

gifted by long-dead stars; pieces held together over a lifetime
by the glutinous illusions the sun has kneaded into my days.