The mind has no limits,
in one sense and not another,
for it is held between freedom’s gate
and the bonds of constraint.

It is the stuff of the universe,
wrought in matter and fields,
fed by the sensory array of body,
with secrets held in complex
mystery, probed but not understood,
an enigma machine that’s not machine,
an eye trying to see itself.

It can question and analyse,
seek answers, construct and
make meaning in meaninglessness,
for the mind is movement seeking patterns,
wrangling with problems,
washed with the tug of feelings,
and desiring truth like a hero on a quest.

The mind is a traveller on the
roads of imagination that stretches
out and out to the grandeur of
the universe itself: lost it is at times
and then finds its way back
to home, and it can spark like lightening
in pointless darkness and despair
and then return to see the wilful light.

The mind creates and the mind destroys,
and the mind plots evil and contemplates
the good, and the mind wonders about
the totality of it all, as time goes on and on:
questions the meaning of existence
on this blue dot that’s big and small,
suckling the mind’s existence, sees everything
and actually nothing much at all.

And at the end, the curtain of this
play’s travail, the mind examines mortality
and the temporality of being itself, the terminus,
formed in a body, free to be, but subject
to the cyclic decay of the world,
formed for anticipation and
then resolved in dissolution.

 

15/11/2024