Wet from bathing in a vast domain of love.
Each step drops fall to the ground,
evaporating into an ever present concealing haze.
The inescapable and pressing unknown.
The crushing heartache of love.
The agonizing chasm of compassion.
The blinding starlight of imperfection.
In sin we suffer, in truth we mourn.
In pain sit molding, embedded in eons of
ancestral soil and push roots
deep as mountains, seeking peace in death.
And in death we seek the cleansing rain of life,
piece by piece unearthed and made clean.
Shivering, exposed, screaming in our mothers arms.
I am awake.
Nice! Really deep! Reincarnation?
Right! I titled the poem samsara, the timeless cycle of life, suffering, death, and rebirth to be transcended by a buddha. Understanding that this is not your first, last, or only existence and that other people may be seen as another of your own lifetimes can be very helpful in overcoming basic struggles.