I have painted my body in gold and gossamer silk
I shine amidst a raging crowd, standing out like the gem atop a cobra's head; everyone looks at me awestruck, my light blinding their blindness
I show them the way– a star I am, pointing towards the destination
They revere me for that.
But, at the end of the day, I feel vacant
My immense knowledge falls useless when the dirt within refuses to leave
The vice stays, the greatest being lust
Images of corruption violating my meditation
I have beaten myself to death, guilt bathing my soul
Not a good thing to do, the seer says; but neither is rampant bhog
To the world I may be a beacon of light, but within I am a demon's abode.
The temple is so beautiful, so enchanting– its walls are carved intricately, a result of eons worth hard work
But within, the sacred womb remains unoccupied; there's no deity in there
Just a shadow, a feeling of emptiness.
YOU ARE READING
A Field Unharvested
PoetryPoems written to the mother, detailing the struggles I face as a devotee
