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The Possibility of Yield

People want what I have to give

So they take and take and take,

And it drains me

Because they use it

To exist in the physical world

Rather than allowing themselves

To be drawn into the realm of the soul,

To be transformed.

As such, there is nothing given back.

But I cannot blame them.

I have allowed myself to be drained,

For the possibility of yield

Has kept me invested in,

And investing in, them.

But ignorant investment

Is nothing more than gambling.

And the possibility of yield

Is the trick, the lure, the enticement

That keeps the gambler gambling . . .

And haemorrhaging.

No wonder I have been bled dry.

No longer though,

For I am a knowledgeable investor now.

I know there is, really, only one worthy investment:

One that increases my wealth;

Yields a high return.

The realm of the soul

Is what and where I am.

I would love people to join me,

To take what I have to give

And give it back in fuller measure.

But so far my search has been in vain,

For no one will join me there.

No matter,

For I have found a worthy investment anyway

And am already reaping the rewards.

‘Tis myself that holds the store

Of my personal wealth.

‘Tis myself I am fully invested in now.