I.

Action instead of meditation,
Whispered the old sensei in his deathbed.

This world is made for the living.
Stop digging a grave in your head.


II.

The old portrait lies forlorn
In this. The only smile in the occasion.

All the white sheets are draped in black
The sweltering heat, echoing.
The only movement:

That of a dog digging for his bones.

III.

Though not a single bone in my body
Is that spiritual at all
Mine might be cranky
Fragile
Heavy

My spirit is getting old
Along with my bones

I carry the weight of thoughts acted
And unacted. Realized, failed, and the impossible.

IV.

On my shoulders, they lie, like only they can lie
Shouts and whispers drip on like in water

Torture. Which is the voice that carries
My truth? The boundary between which I claim
And which this world of movement

For me, has claimed.