crops on the badlands
I do not yield

hot, pressed fingers
no diminishing resolve
and yet curiosity prevails

the mist in the morning
the sigh at dusk

it wins out against all thought
nam myoho renge kyo

I hear you fiddling about and it's like listening to thoughts.
Not sure if they're yours
or no ones.

Fingers travel awhile on one piece and then just as quick
they're searching for something; like the path isn't clear,
or not there at all.

And you'll mess up or miss something and laugh
and it fits right in.