Cursed Art of Zen

Ye whose soul cries of agony,
your faith in thyself trembles,
Gaze not on the external,
That brittle, shivering thistle

Aim thine melody inward,
listen to the self’s drumbeat, dhum dhum,
Thou art alive, O Ye of little faith,
melody hidden, living inevitability.

Proving you shall do,
day and night forever,
for that is what madness offers,
mystic’s addictive elixir.

Watching the watcher shake and wake,
waking from his wake to make,
the most sublime game of chase and blaze,
finding oneself anew, break the gate.

Consume thine inner demons,
eat the grotesque foundation,
take all, leave nothing behind,
be strong and weak, madness refined

Makeshift lyre of mine, strings of barley and rice,
feed me for eternity I play,
fragmenting clay becomes sunshine,
stay awake

Humbleness is thy virtue and curse of yore,
make it serve thee,
lest it adopt thy soul,
and transform thy core

Being content in thine contempt
won’t make you exempt,
grant you no latent ascent,
only transforms thee into hardened cement

Unshaken, mistaken, Tasmanian,
a sinusoidal flora
Stay alert, lest mind detangle,
in the Quagmire of Shangri-La

Eyes reflect a reflection unknown,
remove the makeup, thou art clown no more,
smile some more,
life shows many open doors

Fancy some tea with some cake and pastries,
won’t make a habit,
but today maybe I will try strawberry, ice cream and crepe,
lovely