temper

You killed the Buddha as introduction, kissed the sky as an excuse. All these limits seem to spill from your pockets, miracles from the earth leavened by your feet. It is only the blunt compromise of the familiar, the blur cut in the air by distance and heat. It is only the beauty of incompletion, your life a puzzle never to be solved. The water will evaporate, sipped directly from the soil baked by the immodest heat. You will be gone in a moment's notice, though your presence can do little but linger.

We are all waiting, to be freed from these poor choices and bad memories. We are always awaiting some departure or arrival. Life is in the timing, life is in the tides. The shimmer of the sand, the sheen upon the sea. Some would smoke it down to ashes, others would place it in a jar. It might be a flicker, it might be eons. It might be root or bloom or the dead leaf a-skitter on the wind. Life is abundant and sublime, and only known in the living. Ready or not, here it comes, always on the go.

They placed you in boxes, they kept you in their crypts. They made you dance to that awful song that only lived in their heads as it played again and again. They told you your Lord died so that this would be. The crucifix was broken by action and word. Yet you are all that dancing, your are the recording made of that song playing out. Days of drought and terror, nights made from substances rarer and so much more horrifying. You still somehow evaded and endured. I would say something, but you would already know. All the music and the singing. Your life so beautiful you could get lost just living it.