The White Rabbit
I am late, what was it for?
A hurried pace I can’t ignore.
Somewhere to be that I must go?
Remembered not, what I should know.
I’m not sure why or what the reason.
It seems like life must be that way,
No time to sit, relax, or play,
There is not fun or pleasant day.
Holiday not, nor winter’s season.
Why is it then, I run about?
Not lazily swimming like a trout.
In clear fresh water’s simple stream,
This truly is a tiresome dream.
Pick up the pace, full head of steam.
So I'll go on and run, and sweat,
Live in a darkened world of debt.
Looking at watch to mind the time.
And missing Life in the sublime.
Where am I going? I don’t know.
Can’t afford NOW, no time to waste.
And, so it is with breathless face,
This hurried pace, faster now, I go on in haste.
Just know there’s somewhere I must be.
Though not by ocean, sitting, and watching sea.
It’s way too late. So, hurry me!
A realization, I've just had,
My rapid thinking, must be mad.
At least not helpful, to my mind.
To think about this way, unkind
And all this time, I've been so blind.
It doesn't really have to be so.
My life can turn, then I go slow.
Enjoying life without the hurry.
To live without the mental strife.
No rushing about, no where to scurry.
I finally then can live my Life.
My house a hole, in earth's brown crust.
Eventually, all this must turn to dust.
And, what we think we have, will rust.
Or chewed apart, by flying moth.
So, why do we work oh, so hard?
On such a foolish, house of cards.
That one day falls without a sound
Onto a make believe, land of ground.
That isn't real, and has no substance.
It is an instance, a dream of no thing lost.
To give it up, has cost us nothing.
That passes away, as just a vapor.
A silly drama, a foolish caper.
It is in Presence, we must dwell.
And not the furtive, rush of hell.
For Love is All that in Truth lasts,
It has no future, time, or past.
It's only NOW that we must see.
And in this Life, We Are to Be.
So in this Truth, I will be still,
and being All That truly IS Me.