The Maya Eaters

The birds come, black and ragged, huge
With beaks that peck away at love
Or what we thought was love.
We were mistaken. They tell us that,
With pain of flesh, with wounds of dreams,
With torn illusions.

We are love. That’s it.

No one else can give us what we are.
Lovers take us from ourselves
If we allow them.

We are love, and all else is illusion,
The blackbirds say, their eyes wild and reddened
With hunger for our stories with their plots of hunger,
Desire, and desperation, needing to achieve
To be fulfilled. Just be, they say. Be love.
And until you do, we will eat illusions
From your soul like meat on bones.
We will pick you clean until you see
There is nothing else.

The Maya: the illusion that we exist in separate
Bodies, encased in limitation. We are that
Which chose these lives. We are
Endless, without edges, made of pulsing
Love, the strobe of love, miraculous pores
That breathe from the world outside the story
To the world within the plot.

Maya Eaters ruthlessly destroy us
With one disaster in our lives upon the next
Until we let the story go
And fly up with the Maya Eaters,
Laughing, cawing at the pretense
Of the horizontal plane.