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Response To That Final Question:

Ignorance is the Bane of Man.
At a distance removed,
Dimly remembered, and
Still not seen distinct,
But yet somehow felt;
What we do sense
Is not reality; is not the Real Thing.
This World is hologram.
Then; for lucid sleep;
For it's just a dream
Within another dream
And we are not awake.

Seven Stars' Song of Revelation

Ignorance is a jail where no escape
Is possible but through knowledge.
Don't fear nor spurn. Dare to learn:

Assent to and accept this world as it is
Before attempting ascent to any world
Aspired to or wished for. Life's glorious!

That That Is can be known but by few.
Not space, not time, not gravity exists;
But as Extension from Field of Thought.

Be subject to neither church nor crown.

Dread naught. Disdain none: Not One!
Absent That That Is, there's Nothing.

That That Is, IS. That That's Not, IS, too.
That That's Not makes That That Is: IS.
That That Is makes That That's Not BE.

By rowing to That That Is, I become "I."
Wind + Water = Wave. As THOUGHT is
The Heart and The Nave of The Wheel.

Worlds are created from Thought alone.
That which we will do is because of that
What we are. We'll become who we are.

Charity, courtesy, civility, compassion,
Are cardinal spokes making civilization;
Chivalry forms center, hub's circle core.

IS is! Be not the slave of some other's I.
This, Creed of our Seven Stars Society;
This, The Teaching of the Seven Stars:

No man can be happy if he should choose
To be exile from his own nature and soul.

Precognitive Prescient Prophetic Poetry by WILLIAM O'CONNOR

Monday, June 14, 2010

Sunk Hearts

Those who question the agony
Of love know nothing of desire.
The moon that melts the nights
Of summer is full in circle phase.

Its shuddering beam spilling seasons
Of yellow on limbs of standing trees;
On oaks, on yews; its seas of silver
Imprinting dimpled veins on leaves.

Quieter and quieter a mind sinks away;
Slipping into the somnolent senescence
Of senility; shrinking size in every hour,
For what a terror is lost memory in age.

The black robe of heaven hems a sacral place.
Moon-bright; its lines of beauty softly drawn
In amber, an ocher of delight, paints perfect
Shadows on walls and floors: blues and golds.

Sunk hearts, drowning in the rivers of time,
Sucked down in smothering seas of regret,
Are drawn upwards into the saffron night
By a saving strand of memory of beauty.

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