Sta.sh
The temple fell with the slamming of the door
as the red petals, or blood drops, splashed on the floor.
Remember when the pan full of oil in the ceremonial cooking place
took flame and we covered it with a damp tea towel, shielding our faces
from the heavy incenses that were fuming.
Only music helps me forget, so I keep the drums booming,
and sway on the couch in meditation
and build up speed as I leave my body’s station
to obtain a balance like the speeding bullet
rather than still like the hippy visualizations I could never master.
I spin as the tears sting my eyes like grit
I’m weeping and dizzying ever faster.
The herbal tea is brewing.
The temple is in ruins.
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