Packets of attention,
each a hypnotic trance,
is but egoic bondage,
which by feeble effort
we so try to assuage.
Packets of attention,
signals but our stupor,
bemused by illusion,
we’re a dead man walking,
living in delusion.
Packets of attention,
require to be rested,
for they block divine grace,
garnered in staid stillness,
that vibrant bliss beats trace.
Packets of attention,
if they be void centric,
have no hold over us,
since...
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