Poetry

Nonchalantly 
you rip the smile off, 
from the face of a sleeping Buddha. 
 
It was time 
to start digging a weeping 
hole in the grave of an ancient- 
god who would not wake up 
after you found blood on the knife. 
 
What was your mandate 
after finding the turmoil 
in the tunnel for light? 
 
The life sentence passed on 
to vultures will give the 
corpse a chance to live. 
 
On one side were the angles 
developing the spatial memory. 
On other side you were 
sitting in a cage.