A beautiful buddhist monk
She had hair as short as the time she spent with her family
Skin, flawless with the black moles the only things reminding of her past life
She had beautiful raised cheek bones
Baby pink lips that needed no paint
And teeth perfectly aligned, as if in a formation, as if disciplined

I must have saved a life at some point of my multi-lived time
that I so happened to catch a glimpse of her right outside a shrine
From a distance I was pacing forth
While she was placid, just there inside a shop
as normal as one could be, as divine as she could be.

And I wished when i was back home
To see her sitting statically on my table
I would clad her in all God’s clothes
For her to wear the beautiful robes
The thick maroon fabric like blood that would run diagonal from her shoulder
Diagonal to her waist, diagonal like the sword cut
The smoke that emerged from incense sticks
So ironically mocks her unliberated statue

She would be counting rose beads with one hand
And hold a beautiful lotus on the other
And one somehow more gently on my head
and I would sit there bowing, when everything would just pause
And echoes of the bass of a gong would still me for a while

Then I would cry in the overwhelming feeling
Of her touch on my soul
So I can cry on my sins
So I can cry on death

The kind of death that was the only solution
for things that perished, for beauty that faded
The kind of immortality that could only be caused by my psychosis
The blood cannot be seen through the robes, i swear,
The smell of rotting doesn’t rise beyond the incense

 

 

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