Dreadlocked child sitting amidst
The fleeting cinema of urban feet
Child in Buddhic squat, palms between thighs
Folded correctly
Forlorn on a city pavement
They do not see you, mendicant child
But I do
And I know you too are on your way
Maybe you’ll be a rasta someday
Buddha Child
Infernal pointsman destroying space-time
Shattering science in a million frissons of glass
This is the end of the fury – the mad scribbling
The chill of waiting to pen perfect roses
Whirlwinds rage on, but I am innocent of dust
My imperfect lines throb as if they still live
The market still pulses with life
I tell you
Fortitude and solitude are one
The same with wine and women and art
Cold mistresses teasing flames in temples
Parched with thinking, longing
And forgetting
So
Life shatters into a million frissons
And I step out into the light
Killing the man in the mirror.
A Dark Ghazal
