The Buddha
In the verdant sarcophagus of night
his pale, lifeless eyes unfocused
in a clearing irradiated by a cold beam
---the sitting Buddha
where he sits the forest dies
the grass withers
His pale light blinds me
So I write in inky darkness
But i cannot fathom him
or embrace with my eyes
his silhouette
In the crucible of morning
the sun rises like a flock of golden doves
but i cannot embrace the racing arc of dawn
Though through the viridian canopy
---shimmering coins
Copyright © Chris Johnston | Year Posted 2015
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