Night coaxes you into wishing day

And this day is its remembrance,
Wistful, dark.
Where is the Buddha, and which wretched soul would he want to embrace now?

The wretchedness is below par.
Less tepid perhaps
Or more.

Is it any more real than the tree which meets your eye and goes on to become part of a forest in your mind? It is not less tepid. And yes more real than the forest in your mind. Let the wretched soul absorb too your abstraction. It has endured much worse. And why should you care? There is here this sleeping Buddha that meets your languid eye and you are content. The forest is at peace. For now.

This entry was posted in Poetry.

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