Strike an iron mountain once every thousand years with the softest cloth,

It would eventually be reduced to nothing given enough time.

I am the eye that looks upon that mountain. Karma is the cloth.


Ire, your sweet blanket of self-gratifying ego feeding emotions,

helps to mask your vulnerability.

Who is the owner of that passion? Who hangs upon the limbs of anger likes a stupid sloth?


There is nothing beneath the surface of that emotional current.

With which you can blame. There is no 'I', no 'me', no 'self'

No witness who sits long enough for you to conduct your investigation.



We are moving targets, you and me. Shamed into covering ourselves with cloth.

Grasping desperately to blame a devil and praise a god,

When there is nothing but ignorance and devastation.


Only pleasure and pain and a process that discriminates between the two,

And what of the 'self' that clings desperate to the comforts of addiction?

Could it look in upon itself? Can the eye see the eye? The nose smell the nose? I say no way.



Who is to blame for this ignorance? This comedy of endless suffering?

God? The devil? Point your finger to them and show me where they are,

and I'll see nothing but a mountain long ago worn away,


Pray and you've done nothing but increase the fervor of your hope,

Hope, and all you've done is allowed visions of a future that isn't yet real to consume you irrationally,

Your misguided faith is how you've built that mountain in a day.

Which looms above your life fooling you into thinking it will never wither away.






[Edited 5/16/10 4:14am]

TheVoid said:

and that picture is fantastic.