Sometimes, it's impossible even for me to take myself seriously.


Siddhartha's Headed for Vegas!

The monk, the prince, has had his cave
For years, and, in it, written out his
Thoughts in verse by candlelight,
And being in the cave was good.
The forest's hush had soothed his
Mind. The mostly gentle chatter
Of the squirrels and the birds,
And then the fearsome rasping
Of cicadas, just as summer's heat
Was greatest, never lingered on
His mind, not like human
Conversation. Darkness came,
And light would follow. Life
Itself was neither precious, nor
A thing for him to hate, but he
Is packing. Soon, he'll go. A
Woman from the village seized
His heart, then turned away from
Him. Now, light now longer
Follows darkness. Quiet only
Brings her back before him
When he tries to write. He'll
Put his robe inside a case, and,
Prince again, go back into the
City, where he'll wander and
Distract himself with conversation.
Life, no doubt, still won't be
Precious, but, with her forgotten,
It won't be a thing to hate.



Poetry by Lawrence Beck The PoetBay support member heart!
Read 64 times
Written on 2015-06-17 at 02:06

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