• Vol. 07
  • Chapter 12
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The cross-legged posture.
Closed eyes and deep breathing.
Imbibing all the worldly energies,
making them one huge ball
and pushing down the throat.

Burden of thoughts bursting into forest,
housing whole of them,
head hung by the weight.
The roots go deep down-
till the feet- their juices
all through the nerves and veins.
Heart pumps misery,
lungs inhale nothingness,
but exhales righteousness.
One hand to nurture-
all the reasons and seasons-
ascertaining is no big risk.
Blood and venom spewed
into the already toxic body.
The other hand pretends to cut them clear,
yet the roots remain.
Beheading only changes the face,
but intact is identity.
Thorns and mud weighing down,
bags of spit of words- not mine tho’,
push me deep into the dirty abyss of conundrum.



Strikes and streaks and patches and tears,
all adorn the wall of consciousness.
Each of them etched in intense ways,
it shall take eons to make them fade.

The music begins and I float.
Forehead throbbing and vague creatures
Reflections of a perturbed mind
dancing away in full glory.
Wasn’t I supposed to meditate?
If this is not the way, tell me another.
Confused and defiant and disturbed,
but the moon shines in all beauty.
Also, does this mean I am grounded?