Any morning I wake up
to notice I’m still breathing,
I do make up a poem.
Feeling alive is hardly
enough to keep my upright
beast from being downright mean.
I also have to grow up
the body and mind and then
clean up the shadow I cast.
But without waking up in
spirit, I tend to get stuck
lifting up the ego’s weight.
Weighed down by haggling over
the niceties of dogma
and refined doctrinal traps,
I merely translate points of
view without any inkling
of transcendental presence.
A cup of coffee, or tea . . . ?
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