The Dying Monk
Sometimes poems just arise, this was after a meditation – I like the cave It’s high and the air is thin It’s cold, I can see my breath The stone I’m sitting on is cold The robe is rough on my skin Aching from hunger holds my mind fast I can see the monastery from here Far enough to not trouble me The problem with monks Is that they all escaping from life They seek peace from others But confined by monastery rules And religious dogma It can exacerbate problems They don’t like me I don’t need them Having a … Continue reading The Dying Monk
