Siddhartha's Shrine

I know a lonely place at the edge of the world, Where the sea stacks break the crashing waves. A kind of darkness lies hidden there, creating a dissonant harmony within. At the corners of my lips I feel it, a tangible weight, spiritual gravity; Here, it is real, at the edge, where the light is defined by the setting sun, darkness chasing light. This is the temple of impermanence, shrine to Prince Siddhartha. The smoke passes my lips and is gone. My skin loses heat to the cool evening. Tidal pools breathe with the falling and rising of the sea. Troughs bow in turn to each wave. And there is a tingle, a subtle prick always present. I have become so accustomed to it that I no longer take notice. But here my senses effortlessly unfold, sitting cross legged upon the rock. Here, there is a painful awareness, devoid of meaning and reason. And thoughts wander in desirous desperation, searching for words to explain; But there are no words, just the lapping of the waves against the rock. Here lies the truth, the Word - and the rock, the starfish, the osprey, the ocean, They pay it no heed; for them, everything is just as it always has been.