Poetry

On my deathbed I lay,
The sculptor of my life,
I had stood in the way of nature,
To pump up my pile.

My attitudes I grew,
Looting from day to day,
My mantra was 'O Money',
Stabbing everyone in my way.

I strutted on the knife's edge,
Misused the scriptural sayings,
My attachment caused bondage,
Which withdrew my internal savings.

I had looked for a guru,
To give me some guiding,
What good is a guru?
My ego started talking.

Could I light up my money?
To brighten the corridor,
That runs after death,
To the other shore.

Though highly evolved technologically,
I missed the resources within,
I'm rich in inner poverty,
Yamantaka has begun to grin.