Any System surreal consists of Sink and Source,
Flows defined by lines of Force,
Emanate to Sink from formidable Source,
To give Life’s weight it’s due direction,
Setting all subsets of the system on course,
To feel the field lines that flow with Fate,
That trace streamlines which end nowhere.
Streaks of experience amidst this storm,
From Source to Sink show Life’s full form,
As reference for our predestined pathlines,
That pray be laminar to live, lest we forget,
The terror of turbulence within Systems surreal.
Skanda
Even the wisest know not why War occurs,
For it lies in domain where conflict concurs,
With its own why and its own right to exist,
Contending with The Self releasing resist,
Stances made of past a partial knowings,
Giving ground a present for future comings.
The Great Void spurts a blazing Liquid Fire,
Made of Self-negation, made of Self-Desire,
Further than what was, to become what is,
A circumference expands to claim what is His,
Through Son borne in Her hands, The Mother,
Blending by blood both Purpose and Power.
A Child of six minds and a seventh of One,
Rages in Being brought forth from None,
Asking his parents as to Why of his Why,
In hopes of what will be, living by their Eye,
For Beauty and Balance seek more to explore,
Through only His Being, The Spillage of War.