The Labor

Does God make up, or think us up, or dream us up? I think...it matters, a great deal. Words are words, after all...and if, 'a thought', though, thought not much of, in the scheme of things, 'or made', a simple craft without a soul, but 'dream'pt'?

Now, there's a greater tale to tell...of mystery. Are we 'at all', or have we not to fear but death...and never come again? Or do we never really die, but pass unto another thing, except as thought by us?

I wonder, though I know...we were not put upon this earth to rest, but labor in our soul till when, our knowledge done, we toss our hat, to merge with that Almighty one.

Recall the night the cup was quaffed? He lay with us and we with him and dream'pt this up...when all were more than flesh, yet one?

Namaste


Written by, Bruce James Clyde, at Deming, New Mexico

Art: Hoeing a field, by Clotilde Espinosa