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Rated: E · Poetry · Religious · #1980920
An attempt at poetry of somesort.

Ground me, Buddha; I am sinning against myself.

My ego is not ready to loose you down the stream.
Meanwhile, you, there, on the other side,
dancing in some sunny meadow;
glowing positively
—absolutely radiant.

But even stars die;
those that glow between people,
and those that glow within them;
those that fuse in the sky,
and those that churn beneath our feet.

I am not a star, I think.
—I am not a star.

Ground me, Buddha; I am sinning against truth.

If not a star, then an exile.
Cast between the light, that grey, neither good nor bad.
Almost lost, I search for a light within (I am told it is there);
almost found, I search for places I might light.

I am a false dichotomy (we are all a false dichotomy).

But we are not a dichotomy; we force it upon ourselves.
I am projecting
—but it is the truth.

Ground me, Buddha; I pretend to know truth.
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Printed from https://www.writing.com/main/view_item/item_id/1980920-Buddhic-Somesuch