Fields

The world is a strange field upon which deeds are written
An interlaced web of mirrors in which faces are revealed

Deeds of courage send perturbations out through these fields
And also thoughts which seem to be wired in between everything

What good are miracles to those of us left behind
Are they any better than lighthouses to ships already wracked on the reefs?

This field and its events are not two
Existence precedes essence

These deeds turn brushes that paint colors on wheels that spin back
Upon themselves over eternity