peace isn't so perfect when i'm looking into the tear-puffed eyes
of a pained, sobbing elder
whose soft hands have showered me with love,
like a small green bud that was
nourished and well-fed with rains
smiling into an abyss, i feel my lip curls mean nothing in the face
of wisdom and years, multiples of my own few,
wrinkles and crinkles lining stories, chapters
whereas i've just got fresh, hot, unadorned
ignor ed/ant white pages
words are beyond question. smiles are disarmed
in the face of such deep sorrow, suffering.
i am not turning my back but
my smile is a form of
detachment.
where is buddha now?
of a pained, sobbing elder
whose soft hands have showered me with love,
like a small green bud that was
nourished and well-fed with rains
smiling into an abyss, i feel my lip curls mean nothing in the face
of wisdom and years, multiples of my own few,
wrinkles and crinkles lining stories, chapters
whereas i've just got fresh, hot, unadorned
ignor ed/ant white pages
words are beyond question. smiles are disarmed
in the face of such deep sorrow, suffering.
i am not turning my back but
my smile is a form of
detachment.
where is buddha now?
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