The Great Mystery of it all
Is ever-always present.
It is never not there, this unknown.
Real Mysteries are silent moments rising,
Unfolding, untelling,
Enthralling, in-drawing.

For most there is no Mystery in suffering.
Only imagined greatness
They know. They tell. They agree
Then fall because they've refused
The Great Mystery.

The noise is their certainty
Being torn from limb; the rattling,
The chattering empty shells of hopeful selves
Littering the floor.

Embrace the Great Mystery.
Make room for the promise of emptiness,
Not the futility of what wasn't!
All moments are promises
Impregnated by the eyes that fill them.
See the Mystery, not the misery.

Suffering loves suffering.
It looks out upon itself from itself,
Drinking itself drunk with darkness
Until its blindness closes Mysteries door.

Open it. Stand there. Wait there
For the unspeakable Invitation to live there.
Never mind time.
There's no Mystery in impatience,
Only the known chasing down the known
Consuming nothing.

Linger instead in the Great Mystery
Of moments untold.
Learn to listen for what ears can't hear.
Make your prime directive the Great Mystery.
Let it provide. Let it prevail.
Accept it's unspoken fervent undoing.

We come from the Great Mystery.
Let us return before the biding
And know again this Timeless place as our own.