they sing the songs of my younger days
they still absorb my soul
but only for the moment there
not deeper, not quite whole.
what is whole is mystery
what are we is vast
there's nothing more than everything
and everything is past
everything is emptiness itself.
Everyone caught in the morass of culture
TV, music, browsing, news
unable to see what's going on
right in front of them
or outside their front door.
incapable now of being in control
of their own mental wanderings
they blow in the wind of trash
from one dump to the next.
the mind is at peace
having vented through art
all the mysterious gunk
that gathers inside
the mind, released
from all its concerns
empty as space
full of contentment
at peace with itself
at peace with a world
far from peace
