Buddhist in Black

This all began as a thought.

A spec of black on my brain, that grew into a ruthless vortex.

I accept the Universe and it's mystery.

I accept the connectivity I have with others.

And that I may be composed of stars...

But here I am, asphyxiating alone in my own darkness,

in need of someone to tighten my loose ends.

If my compassion could take a physical form, it would have a resemblance to an emaciated Christ.

Either I need to be crucified, and ended precisely, with the assurance of no resurrection,

or, may I be taken down and loved again.

Quench my thirsty flesh, kiss my withered lips like I'm the only lover you will ever have.

Passion was my blood and nothing more.

It's a wonder I feel so rare.

How can I feel so enlightened yet, so impossibly damned?

Why is this distance between my loved ones and I such decay, yet it is my decadence?

In my peace, there is pestilence, venom in my virtue.

And while I meditate, there is malevolence.

There is an eight-headed beast that lives within me. Lust, Gluttony, Greed, Sloth, Wrath, Envy, Pride.

And what of the eighth?

Compassion.

This unforgiving curse of mine.

This abnormality to love the ones who cause me to destruct.