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WAY OF THE SEVEN STARS


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.
ALL IS THOUGHT ILLUMINATING BEING

Precognitive Prescient Prophetic Poetry by WILLIAM O'CONNOR

Friday, March 19, 2010

Twilight

Strange is the sizing of the setting Sun.
Blooming, swelling, great bellied beast;
Pregnant in its slinking, sliding decline.


Even when gone, its image is left
Seared on the eye; the negative
Of light, a burning ball of blurring
Blue, where before was scarlet.


In the twilight of the aging mind,
Dwindling in each passing sunset,
Strong afterimages still remain.

Release

Were we not pursued by ghosts;
Hunted, haunted, by our past;
Kept handcuffed  by memory,
We could accomplish anything.


Tethered to this mundane world;
Wings clipped by ten thousand
Taxing regulations to prevent
Our soaring flight to freedom,


We lose the gloss of luster and
Decay.  What's left for us to see
Are bars that bind this prison;
Not the space that lies beyond.


As birds in cages shall we sing
Of lost liberties and the theft
Of all aspiration. Nothing now
Is left but a waiting for release:


To fly.  

WILLIAM O'CONNOR

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