A coffin is a dismembered, sawn up tree,
The dragon inside could be you or me
a winding sheet from heel to head.
Buried alive, unable to get out,
I can’t think we’d have much to sing about.
Merlin was trapped within
a druidic oak by Vivien
and is there still.
Yet there’s no evidence
that he’s a dragon or that he sings.
Though Vivien both danced and sang
in a triumphant frenzy
at the surrender of his will.
dragons lived in mountain caves
with their spoils;
at would-be despoilers.
In India we meet
the dragon of Kundalini
a metaphorical conceit
for the powerfully wise,
gnostic visionaries who realise
that, ‘I am ME!’
Third eye opened to Eternal SEE.
(But still, within the Sangsara,
not completely free).
Timor mortis conturbat me.
Not grasping after the Four.
Relinquishing the Five.
Whether for half an hour,
while still alive,
or, giving it all back free
for all the rest of vast eternity;
– the silent singing is still heard,
a living language that does not need a word.
(poem from GNOMONIC VERSES)