An Offering

[sudzgoa]

My moist breath is heavy, laden with lifetimes of dukkha,

Each exhalation, a chore.

Part of me always yearns for something more,

It hurts deep within, at the very core,

So far deep below that oft even I do not hear its constant tremor.

It raises its hood at times like this,

Is this pain/anger/despair? What for these labels?



The mind avenges the emptiness, through the senses,

Voraciously searching its own self-destruction.

There is a common thread through this existence, through every breath I take,

A silvery string of pain; beneath all these smiles and happy days.

Deny it not! It’s not your right, for it is not you but I who doth feel the bite!

How do you negate that which you have never known?



My thoughts are oblations unto this burning fire,

Turning it into a raging inferno whose dancing flames,

Reaches the abode of the Gods.

Burn! Burn! For you have created me,

Burn! Burn! Until you whisper the secret of everlasting snow,

Which cooleth this mind and many,

Not for today, not for tomorrow, but for ever more.

 

[(Wordy)]

My moist breath is heavy, laden with lifetimes of dukkha,

Each exhalation, a chore.

This is deft.

As a response to these lines: when the mind becomes one-pointed upon each exhalation, then the lifetimes of dukkha, both past and future, melt away.