My hands
Have become worn
Reverting paper into pith.
My heart woke
With a requiem.,
Silver and spiritless.
Underneath the Bodhi tree
I find neither epiphany
Nor inveiglement.
*
Today is still
And with heavy eyes
I consume in silence
The exhaust
Of countless
Defeated sighs.
In the next inhalation
A star will find, within me,
Some distant ancestor
But for now
I am without whim
*
I’ll save my wishes
For another day
A day of turmoil
A day when the ink
Spills motley and riotous
In the articulation
Of carefully
Arranged winds
Tomorrow I’ll be
Jackson Pollock
mindlovemisery 