Mystic Muddle

Modern poetry modern verse contemporary poetry contemporary verse modern poem contemporary poem

Rice paper walls and peonies of white

Are sacred in the alcove.  They are pure

As purity can be in any night.

They imply that nothing needs a cure

Or, if it does, then mystically the change

Will come, will simply come along the way

Some sun-filled noon when souls will find exchange

For suffering in Nirvana’s final sway.

It’s all encouraging, but not.  The mist

Is gently rumbling opium that gives

Relief, but not.  Religion that is kissed

Like that avows sweet levitating sieves.

  This all falls worse, far worse than sin’s sweet waltz

    Because the promises are fog-made false.

©  Phillip Whidden