Sometimes (ofttimes) I want to be finished with this life.
The wearisome minutiae of the body demanding attention,
Insistent muttering claims that needs must be addressed over and over and over.
I answer these as best I can.
I do so in full knowledge that these efforts are but a slight delay.
Everyone crumbles in the end and flees their particular carapace.
Mine was not well constructed or comfortable or nice,
A hasty and ill-conceived effort from the beginning.
Like all fleshy dominions, it has pride of being and the illusion of remaining.
I want to shrug it off and move on to whatever comes next,
Sick of being sick, and harried by the futility involved.
Let me be done and close my eyes.
(In my worst moments I fear doing just that.
Only to find on awakening that I’m once again here.
And here. And here. And here. A cicada who lives on,
Dying forever.)
Still, suffering mind. Breathe and know you’re breathing.
Let the beads slip with that rhythm through your fingers.
Om mani peme hung. Om mani peme hung. Om mani peme hung.
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