There's an eagle in the sky
it waves good-bye
off to another day...

to a place where intellectual gods 
of pride wage war 
for possession of mind.

False weed rooted in a dream wilts,
withering in a plastic summer.
Body harvest for no one this season.

With a closed eye
angry dreamers howl at the moon 
like transformed wolves and cry,
"Who is like the darkness?" 
and "Who can defeat it?"

But at the moment one decides to sleep
a seed is planted.

No one dreamer can completely block it out.
It lies buried deep within them growing.

A living tree
it bears luminous fruit.

But light hurts eyes 
absorbed in darkness for so long. 
So dreamers look away
from the light within
and hide from each other in 
delusional shade
while awareness stalks...

hungary like a predator 
it's also prey.

Sweet nectar of the gods
they dine on egos
and pulverized flesh
hardly fresh
but nothing goes to waste,
even for the chaste
dripping sad tears of joy.

A ripe mind reveals
birth and crucifixion
to be the same.

The fruit.

Awareness is hungary to eat itself.

Dining on nothingness,

feast for all
for anyone who cares to fathom...

Eternity lies here with
...who dreams the world?                                                      ©1998  by David Bozzi