Some Transient Life
In Hell light is dark
And the weak are turned Stark
One is left with naught
But thought
And so free goes the heart
When all eyes are turned away
We’ll see how Heaven will sway
Tomorrow
And today
So we commit every sin
On nothing but a touch of whim
Writing in damask
As our forefathers and foremothers once did
Lights off to praise their own shadows
Eyes closed to see where the mind goes
Unabashed, Unafraid
To see where our sleeping passions lay
For is there submission without zen?
Is there Heaven without sin?
Shouldn’t the Buddha want us fulfilled
When he leaves us so empty?
Our earthly desire relinquished
Our darkly fire extinguished
For what will we say in the dark
When all will turn back to light?
The Kannon statue sees me wasted
Full of the life I solemnly tasted
My life carved into him
Like incense and bells
Prayed as wind chimes
Through my many Hells
Untouched
All flies continually gather
In the areas already swept
Living the lives of life rather
Where the mothers had wept
The ghats tread the golden waters
Sweeping their own man of means
Above, ho! Ponder the squatters
In some lost wave of Ganges
For what then is the life of a gadfly
Continually birthed in each sunrise?
Epitaph
Velvet shades
Keep out the rays
Of sunshine gray
Against the windowpane
Of pockmarked graves
Some cry out in dismay
From woebetide beds they lay
Searching for their better days
When all who prayed
Could be saved
Now with thoughts they dare not say
When they see all that led astray
Onto their wayward way
Laughing as memories so sway
That freedom is the price that freedom pays
A Harp of Burma
The soil of Burma is red
And so are its rocks
I tread what seems
To be destinies
On foot alone
Telling the stories that will never be read
Saving the lives that will never be dead
Shedding all thing that can’t be bled
From a ruby river
Waves lap the shore
Once and nevermore
Never to deliver
Souls wade in the shadows
Hung in the gallows
Adrift in fame
Lost in shame
Men are strongest when they kill with both hands
But they’re stronger still when they pray with one
The soil of Burma is red
And so are its rocks
Michael Young, Jr. is a simple man going through half of a midlife crisis. He appreciates having as small of a presence in the world as possible, but this has sadly also left the world unanswered. Now he writes because he is unable to do anything else.
