Morning

Ever-filled by the abyss of sleep,

My absence palpates with presence,

Sensations of weight begin,

Ever so slowly,

To saturate my weightlessness,

Thoughts of time coalesce,

From the fountain spray of Eternity,

And life arises,

To carry its forms,

From their understood meaning,

Into nonsensical colour.

Wherever attention flows,

It meets a mirage on my ground,

Ungraspable by all of me,

Like the earth beneath my back.

To see clearly,

This waking world is but a glimmer,

Of a dark and mysterious Beauty,

Too immense to become particularised,

Too intimate to know objectively.

Yet if I simply rest,

In my posture of a pillowy slumber,

Remaining alertly awake,

As the ground of my innermost,

I see this Beauty from itself.

And then, Beauty calls me,

Into herself,

To behold the day,

As Real as can be,

Waving as the curves of the daylight,

Enlivening my desire to rise,

To meet her with all of me.