Realisation is a mystery:
not that it would seem to be, for it makes
everything evident, and privately,
myself, the sum of consciousness partakes.
How strange that it is in my consciousness
I bequeath it, primarily, to all
my kind, not consciously, in readiness
separateness of idea to install.
Whence separateness in one realisation
is born, and proves to be, I realise,
the universe, beyond my apprehension -
how come? – that owes entirely to my eyes.
What assumption in me of separate
existence? – of you, dear reader, as sown
in my comprehension; more accurate
to say, both realised, in me made known.