Picture: The Sun by Edvard Munch
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The sun is out,
Water in my mouth.
Everything moves and slides,
As do women in furs and hides.
Soundwaves approach,
Dangling and hissing;
Voices poach
The dead and missing.
Where am I?
Is it true or just experienced?
Who am I?
Is it this body or just the experience?
Container versus content:
Am I the awareness or the content
Of what we call life?
Delusion of selves in strife,
Swept away on the cosmic chessboard;
Let them call you insane, strike that chord,
If that means realization.
Aren’t you just them beyond separation?
The sun is out,
We’re just playing about.
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Herons