by Atlas Roark

It’s Atman to Brahmin;

the sea to the rain,

the cars on the freeway are

like drops in a vein;

or ants on parade,

unconsciously wandering

like the coins we exchange.

The star in his system,

the silent alarm,

the soldier’s got orders,

the serpent’s got charm.

A drunk in his circus,

a dream you forgot,

the notes of an opera

are free when they’re bought.

Where in the ocean

are all the fish found?

And will they all drown

when tidal waves pound?

And if while in the ocean,

your leg hits shark teeth,

will you believe

you’re more than a feast?

All and every, and joy and pain,

the sun shall rise to taste the rain.