Is there no comfort at the base of pain,
old friend? In reason’s grip, desire’s a bane
when meaning’s called the mind. Beyond their play
lies freedom, a state that is only gained by way
of work - the path through what? The undergrowth
of hate and fear. We’re tangled in them both
until we learn that we knit up each tear
and snarl, are linked, caught, killed in the sheer
ache of clogging imperfection.
Life’s not
as we wish; that’s yet more lust. Our constant lot
lies smoothed beyond all moods. Unpick those frights
and wants that thought creates; drop wounds, the slights,
the mind itself. Contentment is ours to unbind,
the ground on which to live. Truth's not unkind.
the ground on which to live. Truth's not unkind.
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