318–Soft Buns

for love i ride the waves of my discontent
follow my illusions like the dragon-fly
once thought i was powerful enough to
burn away the world i didn’t like but now
i see it’s here for me teachers rarely come
in beautiful coats once in a while they
are like  Rumi’s Shams, crusty, grouchy old sages
who shimmer with light but most often
they are just annoying daily prickles
sticking in the soft buns of an old woman
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