Empty
—madness creeping in—
you're not here to drive it out
where—why—have you gone?
I've no claim on you.
Heart. Breath. Life. Soul. Yours alone.
Is it lonely there?
is there more to you
—hiding there beneath your skin—
do you even know?
Written by a practitioner of mathematics, philosophy, taiji, gluten-free cooking, chant, meditation, gardening, and renovation, with no particular end in mind. Were there an end, it would come too soon, and the Path would cease to Wander.
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