163 – Beads

The restless city
Never sleeps,
Thru the incense clouds
Of engine fumes and garbage.

Countless faceless faces
Slip along the busy sidewalks,
Nameless beads
Counting the rounds
Of some long-forgotten prayer.

Zen guerrilla fighters
Roam this tender battlefield,
Planting roadside bombs
Full with random kindness.
Every victim’s wound
An open smile.

I take a deep breath
Before jumping, with arms open.
I know they’ll catch me,
At least I hope so,
As I will catch them back in turn.

This road holds no guarantees
Of victory, or survival.
To that the rotting corpses
Of dreams and broken hopes
Bear silent witness.

There is no other road.

I feel alive.

• • •

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