Buddha sits as still as stone
a chill in the air to reach his bones;
all around him whirl the tolling bells
with gaping mouths that cast their spell;
a hole in the sky casts its grace
sweet white rays that make their embrace;
white dead nettle
across bright bled metal;
reflections off the eye cast their glaze
for in the wilderness, the mind it strays.
by matt at shadowofiris
Reference:
White Dead Nettle
OMG! Not a Somniat??? I’m frickin beside myself. Huh? Wha…..? We’ve been 50 into this…this, uh….beyond words thing, and it’s a poem? A rhyming poem. A RHYMING poem. I don’t do rhymes, and so here you are doing again what I cannot, but I am so excited to hear this new voice. A chill in the air to reach….
I am reminded that it is often the slightly uncomfortable that gets attention, perks us into movement. We tend to attempt this regulation of our surroundings, our innards even! The straying mind finds treasures that tunnel vision cannot!
And you thought, somniat would never end!
I guess the poem doesn’t rhyme properly the way it should, and I didn’t even bother to check and see it had a particular meter to it — it just came out the way it did. It was very fun to write, actually.
Thank you for reading!