It
sits, staring, wishing for humanity. We try to fathom,
somehow
distracted, looking outward. Sages have
warned
us,
ever
to search inward,
stirring
friction. I feel you becomes more and more,
where
a novice ponders, how?
There’s
a motion, a daily circle, fraught with frustration.
It
yearns for power, a battle for will, afflicting its
subject.
We touch it there, beneath a surface, somehow a
strange
presence. It leaves to return, ever to probe a
theologian.
Occupation means little: there’s a price to
knowledge.
We live it, a private ritual, acquiring a set of
pangs.
It’s somehow taboo, to float a consciousness,
rattling
a thought. How has it come, a member of
darkness,
where we vie for angels?
Even then, it’s
riddle to riddle—monk to spirit.
