Under a Wesak Moon

…here we plug along. Sense implies human
construct.
Silent knowledge too intangible to
be quantified, measured. It is more subjective,
contextual, subtle,
ethereal.
Yet vital.
Such instinct, lore, ought
not be lost, drowned in prideful possession,
nor discounted for quick profit on the popular market.
*
Traveling through water.
Under a Wesak Moon
where the Buddha crossed the quarters,
liminal wisdom guides.
Unraveling.
Rebelling.
Revel in wry telling
gaudy tales for a shilling.
Skillfully fade; still outside the vale.
Intimate with rambling river —
admonished:  never expect a binding code.
Love ‘em or hate ‘em,
we club ‘em and mate
‘cause it’s all we know.
Tomorrow is only a threat.
Tonite is the moment we met.
To live by chance of regret could do us wrong.
Listen to me. I’m a song.
*
Why invoke Love, so imprecise an instrument,
when desire craves divine-like acceptance,
adoration of sparks within us,
all that can inflame
madness, empathy, a symphony, a cure for any dis-ease.
Love can become rational answer, cherished remedy, 
if the world of we
define it as sanity.
Health, enlightened cooperation, happy inspiration
to keep us all at the top of our abilities.
Sentience suffused, fresco of swooping angels,
pledged to fly us to our highest peak.
Bliss,
aspiration enriched.
Bubbling of bittersweet stew, accrued heritage.
That metallic tang of blood, carbon bonds descended
through rock, dust,
skeletons deconstructed, salvage from waste.
Black swans, dragons, screeching heralds
surge through flame,
purged, re-emerge,
carry potential energy into consecrated deserts.

Sleep well in comfort of serene will.
Tomorrow
we learn to bloom.