The Most Subtle Of Storms

Fear cultivation through the centuries
Grip what denial compels
Caught unaware for ever more
Proud distractions to ourselves
Building high our house of cards
Foundations laid on shifting sands hold on tight and loathe all change
To this the most subtle of storms

Slow dancing in the pulse reflection of our own illusion

Where the worlds within do not end or begin
Tempests in a teapot, barely afloat in oceans unknown
Pitch black dread of the undefined sublime
When the props of our self made plays fade away
Blind rage erupting in flames, sedate the pain denial instills
Comfort the infant behind all the grief, blind eye to the one when life kills

Futile graspings hereafter karma bound not to let go
Hell, only our neurotic projections upon the everchanging canvas

We strut and fret our hour upon the stage, acting out our impostors foil
In frozen silence we scream the true name upon the face of all our fears
When illusions return to nothing on that fateful day
And then at the end we meet the beginning again
The realisation,the lifting of the veil
Face to face with a once buried stranger,
Living with answers from day one

Slow dancing in the pulse reflection of our own illusion

Swallow conditioning, toe the role tradition dictates
Trapped on the ideals pedestal, pin prick truths- ego deflates
Religious fervour mask our emptiness
Drudge through another hollow day
Slipping through the cracks on paths so well worn
The most subtle of storms