Black Steel In The Hour Of Chaos

The Buddha was born to privilege
and died beneath
the lotus tree.

We were raised in green lush
forests of ignorance,
our stance

on political issues taking into account
neither far off
nor near history,

the world outside our palace,
down by the river,
in the Ozarks.

Buddha was born the day he embraced
the world of suffering,
curiosity for a way

to live in concert hardened his back and broke
through easily fed
desires of the flesh,

his strength from the song of the bazaar, from steel
in sun. We stand mute
before consequence,

knowing we’ll never go, in this flesh, to that prison,
having been cursed or blessed
with a belly full

and the right of fully realized potential,
a hard heart, blind eyes,
and a deathless life.



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

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