Sunyata Son

As a child I drew the shapes. They were taught and they were able to resonate as I didn’t have any resistance to them.

As a student I wrote of struggles. What was being taught seemed to erase the shapes I first learned. That wasn’t learning, it was my resistance growing as the shapes faded.

As a poet I dreamed of stories to tell. Their full arcs I couldn’t comprehend. I just kept dreaming until one day I stopped.

Resisting all forms, the shapes disappeared.

So I grew weak and weary. And asked, who am I? To which my soul replied with horrific silence.

There in the darkest of dreams, in anguish I cried. Then I woke, gasping for breath. In mourning, it became clear:

I am a wake awake.

I am a part apart.

As above, so below.

Each day became the first.

No past or last to mourn.

Each dawn brought a new Sun.

The story was told in a dream, forgotten but lived on anyway.

The poem became a song, shared and sung.

The shapes reappeared, in ghost note reflections between the prayer and the belief.

I was drawn from the cosmic one.

With gratitude, remember this.