Insights

Occasional dips in the dead silence
rinses me the mud-
smeared patch of being— gone loose from
the winds of conditioning.

Eyes burn…
not because the day
isn’t beautiful.
but because something
isn’t right.

Sleep. Sleep tight.
Forget the night.

And rise to a morn
more beautiful, with a beautiful
dream to share.

Under the umbrellas of
mushrooms

there are
ants awaiting

the rain
to stop;

nearby
is a cast(l)e of termites.

Should it be like this?