Of The Dream


Do they dream,
Those who sleep below the ground?
Or their rest,
Should we count such state life’s end?
I know not,
Yet am told so many tales.

One will say,
Spark immutable is life.
All reused, cycles of strife.
And a third,
Life, ‘twas never truly here.

Of the last,
Mere infernal poppycock.
Of the wheel,
Matter turns, but spirit moves.
So the first,
Here I’ll place my bet unsure.

This I think,
Life is eternal and here,
But cannot,
Be re-grasped and tried again.
So direct,
Choose your path, and know the way.


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