Gestalt

The loses and regrets en this Life
We bravely endure w/ the perfect poise of a paladin

We do not mind the hard blows 2 the gut (even when they arrive en bunches)
We do not mind the sword when it is driven, hilt-deep, ento the upper thigh
We do not mind the occasional port-wine bruise spilt across the cheek
Or, swollen shut, the blackened left eye

Indeed, what really finds its way beneath our mail of chain
And digs at the bone
Are the little deaths

The ending of storms
of forms

of places far-off
and loved ones dear

O! How easy it is 4 the sage
2 stand on high
And, with much fanfare, proclaim the cause of suffering

O! How easy it is 4 him (or her)
2 sing rapturously off key

Do not cling / All is Fleeting
Do not cling / All is Impermanence
Do not cling / All is Mara

Bound 4 the bin

{Fingercymbals-Twice}

However,
The business of Death is death

Whose works are fearsome and wonderful and
Whose goal, a lofty one (2 be sure)

Is 2 dispense, by all means of cruelty, upon the soulful,
The boon of The Hero’s Resolve

{Fingercymbals – Twice}