Moths circle the lamp, hover and hurtle,
attracted to the flame but, also
driven from the midst
of its dark surroundings.
You reach God (they say)
when you come to the end of yourself.
You get wise. It’s the truth of illusion
that shatters, that jades;
the truth of illusion that bores, sates,
You rush toward God when God
outshines His surroundings.
When the dark has gobbled you up –
bones and blood,
you rush and flail
and hurl yourself toward the light;
seeing there’s nothing of worth
in the darkness to leave behind.
O child of God, turn from illusion
toward the way, the truth, the light.
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