OM is fundamentally an orientation/position of profound gratitude.
All living beings lose the essence of their life properties eventually: this is defined by the particular configuration of the atoms and molecules in their body and around them that enable life functioning. Once this configuration (really configurations) is disrupted, the descending OM begins.
The beginning of the OM is of course the first moments of existence, i.e. the particular configuration manifested in the post-contact reality of egg and sperm, pollen and germ cell. Note, this says absolutely nothing at all about the moral status of such a configuration, merely that this is the first utterance of the OM. This is true of every living being.
Taken from The Treatise on Other Spiritual Wisdom, Gilla Artenis
in my final moments
let me be light
let me soar the starry sky
my earth, oh my earth
i leave you by
returning
will i ever see again?
no, oh no
as long as the
end of time
Life, for me, has been an oscillation between poetry and prose, unconscious and conscious existence. I suspect it's the same for many people, in its own way. Lately I've been able to cultivate a vision of the world, only in part, in which I see everything around me as if I was a soul returned to a body. How would you -feel-, how would you -see-, if you had one last chance to see the world after having lost everything to that eternal night of slumber? Can you find it within yourself to see the world as if having lost it?
a night of revelry
laughter, flashing eyes
clinking glass
fire in our bellies
then fade the setting summer sun
fade the waking eye to
dream upon a dream
hello dawn with
sandy throat
encrusted bloodshot eye
footstep like a
pebble in a shoe
"the morning after"
heavy as a leather jacket
tonight's new party
a farewell to friends
pour the blood-red wine
bringer of jollity and
open doors
the never-ending
celebration of life
before the passage of
another day
snowflakes in the wind
never back here again
and time will lift us
higher than the sky
to soar, to die, goodbye
they're all fictions
these escapes
scraped together dictions
sustain us in the night
secretly fighting
shadowland
to live just once
upon the grassy plain
to strain against the
brightest yellow sun
ah life embodied
sweep me with your
starry eye
to soar, to die, goodbye
what you are given is not the Way
but it is your mother's or father's
a church, mosque, or synagogue's
a culture and an era
who in turn received it from another
there is no "way" but the Way
the philosopher was right to say
it cannot be named
but this is inconvenient
so we grasp our little "ways"
and perish never having
known it
except in briefly flashing
moments of illumination
