buddha was sitting under his tree as the smoke flew by his focused closed eyes. unfazed.

there was warmth in the air with the cold on his feet. the cancer set in just then, and inside he weeped.

it’s hard to be alone in this world we live to roam with others at our door so we don’t fear walking out anymore.

but night. on a sunny day where the leaves start to grow and play. the moon shines on my face from beneath the ground miles away.

because it’s craters, however deep, remind me that a sinkhole stands beneath. i am always falling, towards another, towards myself.


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