It comes to me as static, unwavering, never-failing,
Incantatory obfuscation,
Still the Buddha sees right through.
The valiant canvas on the windowsill can't obscure his sight.
Because we both know that the frame never quite fits,
And there's always something more,
For saints and virgins however pure.
A blissful dreamer prays for a coma,
As the inch begs for a mile.
"Take me out to the ball game; bring me home to the zoo."
Screw the ribbons, what's inside?
It's too little, it's too much, but can never be enough.
A glutton's Swiss parade,
An illness that's self-made,
What we have runs together and runs away,
It's common plight for we're running too.
Because in our minds we stand still on dead grass,
And even the most gilded touch can't render peace.
