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Recovery was swift and worth the wait,
a brisk and rapid couple million years,
as algae grasp at life beneath the waves,
and fiery rain has fried me through the core.
This wooden spoon is coal, a painter’s wish.
The open canvas roiling like the sea.
No destination waits beyond that sea,
so hesitation whispers to me: “wait!”
No goal, no dream, no guiding beacon wish,
just staying on that hot tin roof for years.
No need to bury, digging to the core:
lost at shore before those endless waves.
Left standing, sinking, hearing mighty waves,
in sand, in liminal. The beach, not sea.
A bridesmaid caught a rotten applecore.
I’ll set my sail tomorrow! Just you wait!
(Or, failing that, in six or seven years.)
Procrastinating tangled up my wish.
That falling star, I snatched it for my wish:
a guide to find a path across the waves
of foam, of sea, of tachyons, of years.
The journey’s only purpose is the sea.
The present doesn’t need for me to wait
since now is now. We’re always at the core.
The bottleneck within the hourglass core:
a promise knot, a hopeless tangled wish,
a comfy wait that traps you in the wait.
Prerequisites come crashing down like waves.
These rocks and pebbles washed up from the sea:
debris that binds my schedule up for years.
I taste a second. Barely hear the years.
Ten bulls transcended, lost inside the core.
A stolen conch horn dreaming of the sea,
forever whispering its inner wish,
reflecting audibly, for us, those waves.
Just does. Without a need for it to wait.
The years get stolen waiting for that wish.
The core lies not beyond, nor on, the waves.
The now is all I have. The sea can wait.