Teeming in the wasteland of existence
is the nothingness that resides within the everythingness.
The oasis is a looming mirage—
a nightmare pretending to be a dream—
made up of homogenised illusion:
the blood, sweat and tears of the egomaniacs.
An invitation into this seeming sanctuary
is the invitation into a cesspool of perpetuated unconscious shadow.
Acceptance of this reality is an acceptance of
disassociation from lucidity, clarity, and sovereignty.
Staying conscious requires drinking from the watering hole
of which the liquid is a painstaking elixir of truth
and though it replenishes and demystifies the reality of the wasteland,
it turns truth thirst seekers
into alienated outcasts—
soon perceived by the sheepish dwellers of the oasis, as
the sting of scorpions and venom of snakes.
Cast astray into the hands of grace,
truth is Eden on earth,
a demystified cosmic consciousness
pretending to be a wasteland
pretending to be a desolate place