Beautiful
Dead masks.
Perfect
Geisha skins
Tightly spread
Over the rotting flesh
Of our delusion.

Stories
Bouncing off
The walls
Of our own private
Echo-chambers.
Telling us
The “truths”
We want to hear.

Tinted glasses
In every color
Of the rainbow.
On-demand reality,
Custom built
To fit
Our fairy tales.

All this
Suddenly shattered
By the blessing
Of a slap
From each
And every hand
Of a thousand-arm
Bodhisattva.

Reality
Is a hard
But necessary pill
To swallow,
Even if it sometimes
Must be
Shoved down
Your throat.