Septic thoughts, permeate my mind.
I think it is the rain...
dark, ominous clouds...
yes, they persist in glooming me.
They are dooming me to think.
to be analytic...
Me, the clown prince of foolishness.
I am but a clown, trying to understand clowns.
I am the master of ceremonies....
the fool of fools.
I am not a free bhikku.
All my observations give me:
I have every "itis" in this sorrowful world.
The blindness of my third eye is killing me.
I will soon set myself free.
Sleep, oh gentle sleep...
beckons to me.
A dark figure invites me...
he of bony hands and finger...
curling toward me, inviting me,
saying to "come and sleep".
"Come where septic thoughts will never be."
"Come with me where pain is but a phantom."
"Come to eternity."
Yes, sleep...give up the "itis".
Give up the gloom.
Give up the dark clouds.
Give up the septic thoughts.
They merely are phantoms of my mind.
They permeate nothing in nothingness...
So sleep, dear poet.
Sleep a sleep of the ages.
Exhale your final pain.
Leave your septic thoughts...
the dualities which permeate the mind...
For they are only illusion.