How small we are in this thing of dreams, no Wonder to enthrall,
How minuscule, how thinly masked, that grit that makes us tall.
We tower in our minds alone and frolic in our ploys,
We think us greater than all else, and yet it’s just our noise.
No deep thoughts linger to move the world, no depth in our perception,
We travel in a mindscape vision, mighty lost in the wrong perfection.
Towards end a light awakens me, the fog of thought now tiring,
How silly, was there all along, just lost in my self ‘miring.
The magic of Being is simple and plain, awaits us with patient breath,
The magic of Being so willing, so game, to love beyond cosmic death.
© Stefan Bright
Letters From 500 