This world is nothing but demons ---
as the boundaries of time and measures collapsed,
as we danced in the washed out memories
    of time's wound,
was seeds to sustain life as lessons
      of its passing through,
    as silks movement in the wind,
when a silent wind blew in its crowns,
    as the knot in hair untied
and hallmarks on shattered porcelaine,

    O my fate is that of Paganini,
  as they cut the strings on my violin,
was only one left for the audience,
      let me be the Devil then,
let me be the bow on 'er instrument,
    as it strikes every note,
as by its letters shapes, intonations,
  is its wounds healed !

 Yet the sun neither sets or rises for the blind :
   As a flower unfolded was the world reborn,
  and its seed on their foreheads shone
  when it was birthed as inner sight,
and a child stepped out of the Sun and spoke,
   as a split arrow shaped their ears to hear,
  the voices in the shadows crescents,
  "this too will burn out as specles
    of dust, as vapour when rain falls
   on a burning log, rises as a cloud"

   O Guide me Not by Compassion :
Be as an instrument played by nails, as wind,
  of breath blew, and hands shaped,
its riddled surface as tigers claws held ,
  are storms raised, and tempered,
does the earth erupt, as a gaping wound
      of its birth at horizons gates ---
   in tears grasp of still-born :
We don't know how others poured their cups,
    as milk from breasts to a baby.

    O my fate is that of Paganini,
  yet i'm not the master, but its spirit
as it sang inside the empty halls,
      let me be the vessel then,
let me be the remnant of its silence
    as it departed the stage,
as hands clapped without a sound,
  for it was no longer heard !

  This world is nothing but demons ---
as the chimes of nailpolish on a bell is mistaken,
for its toll ; there was love as it grew,
    as a placenta,
by its roots fertile soil, as it drew
      the poisons of desire out.
    life only is - until the last.
as an empty cup filled with breath,
    in nights of quiet pleasure,
and rain which fell into its depths,.

   O Guide me Not by Compassion :
Be shapeless, formless, as tides withdrawn,
  the water further out also returns,
and to assume a position it changes as abrubt
  as the weather shifts, is it formed,
a position on what was told, not what wasn't,
      be at guard for horizons gates ---
   even the wetstone may deceive.
We don't know how others compass has turned,
    as a sword in the center is drawn.

Yet the sun neither sets or rises for the blind :
   its rays of the radiant songs on their skin
  as days and months which never existed,
   as a bow strung without an arrow,
was it placed on a shelf, struck by the wind,
   as the sound of an unplayed instrument,
  it crossed wastelands and deep seas,
   as soul and spirit, thy wil- be done.
    whistled in steep mountain passes,
   as a whisper .. "you are not alone"

    O my fate is that of Paganini,
  as a butterfly upon a prisoners hand,
      a leap of faith to be caught
in an eagles claw and sweeped away
    to ages hence, parted since,
as its chalice, its cup, its grail,
  as a tiger roared below !

  This world is nothing but demons ---
as it passes, pulsates - as holy rivers pollution,
as a lovers smile turns to tears of grief
    in its absence,
as it craves to return to its former,
      but was in the math of it.
    as we stroke beyond love's gates---
in all its fury, as a tigers claw marks,
   of a monks fingers as it slides over
a mathematical mandala to destroy it.