Forward

I am no Yogi,

As I throw things around whimsically.

I tread through tunnels of the mind,

Taking my sandals off too late.

Feet blistered out of carelessness.

Perhaps treading correct paths,

Is softer on the flesh.

Pointing jesters stand in doorways,

Mocking me with their laughs.

I see myself in their eyes,

Which betray their profession.

I gesture at the ground,

A modern cigarette mudra.

Bent over-the-bar asana,

Not quite as pure as could be.

I am no Sadhu,

As I've seen myself in society.

Windows trick the mind,

Allowing false openness in most places.

Each chance to escape,

Subverted by false prophets.

I will become a Yogi.

I will always blister.

I will thank jesters.

I will understand gestures.

I will become a Sadhu.