A Broken Zen

Like an ageing actor, playing out of tune
As he tries on poses and reflexes from his brighter years,
We sometimes sit a broken zen.

Like a childhood melody we just can’t remember,
A music box fallen downstairs and then going awry,
We sometimes sit a broken zen.

We start again, we pretend, and take one more deeper breath
And almost start to believe it is all coming back,
While ragged old thoughts recklessly twirl in all directions
Hyenas are laughing in the face of the wounded lion.

Dying king,
No more roars to sway,
No more roles to play.

No key to be found
To wind up the box,
Nothing left to expect.

At last, expecting nothing,
Sitting alone, in the night.

No master to call on
No manual to follow
No remedy coming.

The crust has cracked,
Raw lava underneath.

Franck Joseph
©FJ Fev 2021- All rights reserved.
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