Adishankaracharya108/Wikimedia Commons

So many hours spent typing;
Plastic keys spawn empty words,
Though maybe with them all,
I might just save the world. 

But each line leaves exhaustion;
I seek comfort in synthetic fibres,
Their softness hiding the way.
Really, only inhales satisfy.

Trapped by roots of success
I twist into any bloom,
I was meant to be, but
Coloured petals never last.

Yet now I stand in mountain –
I feel the river begin to flow,
The moss on rocks grow,
All my weeds begin to show.

I realise in this warrior, 
Stretching out fingertips,
That my limbs do shake;
Not fake, but strong again.

As it all exists in cycles,
The falling of the sky
Basks ablaze in orange light,
Disappearing into whiteness.

Each balance calls to an edge:
A wobble, a change, a seed,
To ground up down to earth again,
To listen to breath all around.

I feel the exhale leave me
And with it, ending silence of trees,
The creaks, the moans, the aches,
Find peace on the flowered mat.


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