The Sin of Meditation, #40

I laid down at the feet
of the master, only
to find I had fallen
in love with crusty toes,
old, ugly, tired lies
about the scent of God,
the odor of fire,
the aroma of feet.
All that’s left is breathing.
I adore the breathing,
with its deep full longing,
its required focus.
So now I abandon
the teachings, meaningless
chanting, the commitment
to any commandment.
Low lies the head longing
to lift off the mattress,
off the cold wooden floor
from beneath rose petals.

My hands are wide open,
laid at my side in what
they call the corpse posture,
no longer appealing
to magic. I cross them
as one day I assume
the reaper will, clutching
what’s left of this casing,
attempting in a last
vain effort to possess
my escaping shadow.
I am laid here content
on the soft carpeting
of the home I’ve made
from wood and blasphemy,
my picking and choosing
of beliefs. All that’s left
is breathing. In deeply,
out deeply. The rushing
calm and fleeting relief.



A day is not done, until it's filled with words.

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