But that’s home,
and jasmines lose their fragrance overnight.
The Holy Spirit, should never be compared
To the spirit unfulfilled, gravely disturbed.
Maybe an amputee can tell the pain of pruning, branched trees
Persistent in their reform to grow inward, rooting soil deeper than sticks and poles
Yet, like antennas clashing with the nearest catastrophe
The human mind wants to reverse the white noise, into a state of rhapsody
Maybe a thing or two makes you think, maybe question
Have you thought of all that doesn’t?
Weaklings thinking themselves good had they lame paws
And transparent egotism, a way upward, a way away
A word or two makes you heal. A sentence that turned into a squeal
A laugh that wasn’t laughter
It is subtle ascensions like these, my comrade
That regurgitate prayer, back to the monk who took a vow of silence for his remaining life.