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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

Tuesday, July 19, 2011

At the Terminal Bar

Lingering there, lingering there, at the terminal bar,
Lemon light and scarlet shadow, flair and form again;
Marry light with shadow on floors at the terminal bar.

Dancing in their solitude at the terminal bar.

Angels of the morning, turning to the rough
Religion of the night, dancing in that dream
That doesn't seem a dream at the terminal bar.

Dancing in their solitude at the terminal bar.

Layers of light shimmer there in smoke scented air
In the soft stillness of the night, at the terminal bar;
Shaken from the stun of sound from sax and drum.

And them dancing there, all clad in their sad solitude,
At the terminal bar.

Falling, fading, lights smoothing out the rubber
Faces of the dancers; dancing there, in their
Crimson-Yellow visions, all alone at the terminal bar.

Dancing in their solitude at the terminal bar.

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