inhabiting this body,
anchoring the delicate strands
of spiritual perception
fluttering in the wind,
forlorn.
My mind always flying away
like it is too light,
too much drawn to worlds of
illusion, regret, abstract regions
while in the body is the memory
of a neglected child,
writhing with pain.
Who are you?
Who has hurt you?
Why are you crying, fretting,
burning with shame and anguish?
The pain covers
the inner layer of my body
like a veil,
fire burning on the surface of water,
thick ice that you would not imagine
could ever melt,
mist hiding a forest, where you would not
imagine a mountain could be.
There is something beneath.
The only way to reach it
is inhabiting the house,
bringing my being into the burning rooms,
and watch, wait, alert.
In the pain
I will start seeing threads of meaning
and I do not allow it
to push me into the airy,
blind worlds.
Looking with the intention
of understanding
I have the discipline
not to escape
or disappear.
or disappear.
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