Absent,
war.
Absent,
famine.
Be I,
absent pain.
Absent,
the ability to suffer.
Absent,
the ability to deem,
each second,
not free.
For,
why be I,
imprisoned within mind?
Why,
be I seeking,
whilst existing as,
alive?
Oh,
to be this,
quite lion.
This,
which roars,
as if lightning be stored,
within thine pen.
This,
which hunts,
silently.
Which,
plays with passionate,
vitality.
Storms,
rage as the mind,
tethers itself,
to equanimity.
As,
this balanced presence,
becomes thine essence.
As,
one's breath,
whispers.
For,
thine golden tongue,
reverberates the water.
Alters,
such.
As,
such forms within,
the essence of,
wisdom...
©yungb123
Y