Posted in Spiritual Poetry

Zen Masters Aren’t Cloaked, They’re Furred 🐈

she’s a croissant made of moondust
on Carpathian rug’s edge,
torso ascending and sinking
on autopilot, engine
a lax purRrRr.

my pen’s point rests atop
e m p t y parchment page,
ink accumulates
into blackhle, beckons
me to descend into oblivion
just like her.

sleep GIF

Advertisements