We go to sleep
And sometime during the night
We slip out of our body of pain.
Perhaps we just want relief
Which doesn't strike one as particularly noble
Still, we leave everything the way it is
And face a great unknown.
One may say, "I know where I'm going,"
Or, "I know who's going with me,"
Or, "I know who's going with me,"
Yet it is a high trust;
Faith beyond measure, when we yield up the ghost.
Faith beyond measure, when we yield up the ghost.
Since we hardly know where we are, or who indeed!
All along the way, we partake.
Where we came from, such a mystery
Who we are.
"Know Thyself," is well said.
But you are none-the-less, unknowable
All your very suchness beyond sacred
Held in trust for a few decades
After which it wriggles out
And the mystery envelopes you completely
Leaving only wing dust.
Out of some other chrysalis then, mystery slowly spills
Into the light of sun, moon and stars.
One part falls to earth.
Another rises into light.
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