There’s a Buddhist’s Nature

It’s a lost cause, this thing we say, pondering a Buddhist swan; this ageless beauty, tangled in a twofold meaning, yearning for a mother’s light; where it couldn’t be real, this claustrophobic office, a woman half his size—searing and seizing, to conquer souls, that close to erupting. I knew it early and kept it secret—this thing claiming natural minds; that god of science, that morning shower, that armor engrained in deep belief; this Zenist soul, inscribed upon windows—even a bird greeting a mystic. I’ve found it heavy, this split of lines—a man focused on morals; this thing of fools, as to see this heart, as naked as a batch of sorrow; that deep attraction, engraved upon cliffs, as we leap into dimensions; to feel for love, this inner meaning, while one escapes to a private island. It mustn’t be real, while years churn—this cauldron of crystal fates; to which, were shattered—while shards grew—this thing of weeds. I’ll leave it be—for hell is near, while I plead for a gift; and I’ll hold it close, the strength of women, while warring for silence. I wonder often—of a tender touch—the odor of un-brushed breath; that inner mourning, as scolding secrets, while contemned within: that fatal life; that fatal cry; those inner excuses; to do it this way, this murder of souls, as lying to claim redemption. It mustn’t be us—absorbed in laughter, raging at mirrors; this deep infraction, that torrid conference, as one giddy with guilt; or even pain, or even joy, for this world is filled with lies; wherewith, was trust, that shattered friend, to have lost so much; but could it be, this zeal for truths, to have done that thing with wailing lungs? I fret and panic, gazing at mischief, afraid to confess attraction; while it shouldn’t be—this constant chase, as one eager for the deepest pools; to swim with malice, as accused of grace—this pace of fools; but more to love, this grand piano, as lifted to the seventh floor.