Hallowed

Everything familiar to this one isn't now.
Eyes look upon the world in weight with newly furrowed brow.
Their gaze will rest upon the hands as it is wondered, still.
If there could even be a plan, if gods obtain their fill.

What if we could really see all that could be us?
The extent of all this tapestry and willpower and dust.
What if this weave is one that truly doesn't end?
No final culmination for us to shake and bend.

This one picks up the pieces that fall down from the sky.
Buries them in the ground without really knowing why.
This one is still developing into something that can die.
This one is still enveloping everything they try.

Meditation sometimes feels like just an endless game.
A game that the world of tides forced this one to play.
A game designed to still the mind and see It All the same,
and fail to integrate that sight as differences remain.

So we are it, and it is we, and all of it is said.
This would be distressing less if we could all break bread.
What we'd give so that we could understand the days.
But I think we might not like the answers, anyway.

We share the same biology but inside our psychology
lies an insane methodology to dehumanize another.
Reflexively we hold distinction above similarity,
drawing lines that harden minds against a higher clarity.

Disparity. Meta-cultural gulfs of false polarity.
Delusions that a common understanding is a fantasy.
Self-assured superiority, uncompromisingly maintaining
stubborn impasses, unbudging ideology.

Falling into rabbit holes, identities of pride.
Every person is a schizophrenic universe inside.