I admit, time doesn’t move the same for me as it seems to for others. Ever since Shakti rose within me, my body and my entire being have been transforming at a rapid pace. With each shift, I receive downloads that arrive as sudden epiphanies—flowing endlessly, one wave after another.
Often, I need space to process before I can put them into words. And as I begin to write, more revelations intertwine with what has already come. This is exactly how my poems are born. Each one takes me through a cycle: the download, the processing, the writing, and finally the sharing.
Usually, it takes me a day to bring a poem to life, but even then, it continues to unfold inside me. I hope you feel as much joy in reading these words as I feel in receiving and sharing them.
Love you all!
The Illusion of Time
What is this time we’re living in,
A line so straight, yet not within.
We cannot bend it, can not rewind,
It shifts and breaks inside the mind.
Is it fast, or is it slow?
Perception tells us what we know.
In Maya’s dream we twist, we play,
Like cartoons drawn that fade away.
They call it old, they call it wise,
A fleeting spark behind the eyes.
But what’s this game that God has spun?
A thousand lives, yet only one.
Turn the key, leap through the hoop,
Unlock the code, complete the loop.
The key of life, the life of time,
A song, a riddle, a hidden rhyme.
To dream the plane where senses meet,
Where taste is born and scents repeat.
Through clouds of dawn we find our way,
Toward the storm, the eye of flame.
No more lies, no secrets kept,
The serpent’s eye no longer slept.
The veil is torn, the wicked thread,
Time unravels where gods have led.
The line grows long, yet never straight,
It branches wide with shifting weight.
A tunnel bends us side to side,
Yet guides us where illusions hide.
The end that ends, yet never ends,
The spiral turns, the circle bends.
All a plan, divine in play,
Through time, through pain, through night and day.
A thousand lives, a thousand years,
Illusion woven through our tears.
Confusion deep, yet truth is wealth —
Endless layers of the Self.
Like mirrored glass in halls of time,
Each reflection hides a sign.
Peel one back, another shows,
The Self is endless — and it grows.
