What a conundrum as it seems to me...
That anyone might desecrate what makes
The heart soar or melt in overwhelming delight
With tome-tinned praise.
"Enlightenment," "compassion," "emptiness" and all the rest.
Consider the teachers and thought realms
That eviscerate and undermine
The very thing so much beloved.
What suicide is this
In all its earnestness
That consigns the wondrous
To a tawdry grave?
Such wondrous and horrendous light
Filling what cannot be filled:
Love what you love and hate what you hate,
But do not whine: What adequate altar could whining build?
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