There are only a few lunatics,
For whom this “Great Matter”,
Is more than a delightful fascination,
A reason to enjoy community,
A thrill born of occasional insight.

This is not an indictment,
As it's simply in the nature of things,
That most are satisfied just enough,
To have made peace with dissatisfaction,
Living and loving as best they can.

God Bless us all.

There are only a few lunatics,
Who, through no choice of their own,
Have minds consumed in Wonder,
Heart's Aching with Longing,
Who are, in a unique way…


It's a Blessing, not a curse,
To be thus consumed, thus distracted,
So that even amidst life's joys and sorrows,
One cannot escape the ever present Question,
Spoken wordlessly, in the Heart of Being?

What is this…
All of this…
This… being alive…
This experience of existing…
And… what am I?

A kind of Madness,
There in each breath and heartbeat,
Filling us, in the same instant,
With Unbearable Longing,
And Longing's Fulfillment.

A Longing born of that which is Longed for,
Containing, like a seed nurtured in The Heart,
The Fulfillment of the Heart's Desire,
Longing and Fulfillment, impossibly…
Present, both at once.

I find these fellow lunatics, occasionally,
And over tea we chat of The Great Mystery,
Of Her Inexpressible Beauty,
Words spoken in Love and Wonder,
Of that which cannot be spoken.

What a Blessing, that even now,
Through Grace, Unimaginable,
As Her Presence Fills my Heart,
I Ache with all my Being,
And Long for Her…

Troubled… Exquisitely.