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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

Sunday, January 2, 2011

Dance of Death

The legless grow new limbs and dance.
The sightless, sudden are given vision.
Armless stretch, reach way out, grasp
At rings; to ride carousels of the grave.


Purple poplars turned to copper and gold,
High-waisted trees; in Fall, their trousers
Of yellow leaves, twinkling in the breeze,
Swayed-wide, are pulled down in Autumn.


Thrumming dim, white winds of Winter:
Branches thwacking in shuddering cold,
Timid twitching with each blasting gasp;
Din of naked rubbing, twig against twig.


Smeared sun; bare, weak, pans boughs.
So nearly night, glimmering somberness
Open up death's imperium: nothingness.
Swallow day into maws of forgetfulness.


Heat and light hold together.  Join now
With an annealing of fire.  Annihilate all
Of life's desires. Link elbows. Slow step.
High hop! Jump the ditches of mortality.

WILLIAM O'CONNOR

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