I switch off the Television
as if laying Mara1
to rest
turn off the lights, get into bed
ready for the scornful play of distance
once again
the remote, the water
the pills, the duvet, the reading light
the books...are all close by
close by too is this receding grip on my form
the rose quartz on my wrist is more grey
than pink...
an innocent parasite, true to my state
outside the window
a thick river of scent
from the blooming Estonia
bathes a coiled, taut moon
and the restless hare in its belly
The imprints of your touch from long ago
are chafed by the winds from the North
but they bring no death
to the cravings of the mind
and I tumble in a squall of putrid hopes
dissembling desires
Like a sigh still shuddering around the sternum
I fumble for the breath of release
and wake up in pieces in the morning
like a smashed mirror
glinting with images
the images I love...the form I abhor.
Hints:
- Mira is the God of evil according to Buddhist texts
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