And am I not like smoke?
Turning ever toward the door
in steaming swells I soar
and twist from flimsy sticks
stacked on ash like the past
present and forgotten, soon
to be disposed of because
I have already escaped
this hateful fate, but
from above I smell my burial
waft and wane, aswim in lingering love
for the ground I now surround.
And too the flame?
As flashes lashed to name and form
Atman is already born
Needing
Feeding
what it is that keeps us warm.
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