The duhkha wavers—silence in God, no need to
assert the living. Threshed by anatman—consumed by western thoughts, blending
susurrous landmarks, an arrow through winds, a target, an achy arc. Upon voltage,
to notice wilderness, the tumbleweeds beg for freedom. Wicked into mind,
listening to duty, remembering the soul is born yearning. Into a cycle,
desperate to till wisdom, nibbling parts of deaths; inferior in comparison, of
creative creatures, longing for things never made evident. Was fatigued,
unrest, nerves shifting—the sun grew weary. Looking is a misprint. It amazes
how fervent a lack of can become. A mystic yogin. A cogent yogi. The esoteric
mystics. A world combined of energies – to move galaxies, to overwhelm reality,
the mind segues through Aum. Unto orison, fraught by furnace, pleading
the miracles.
