The chime is at the mercy of
the breeze,
too lightweight to resist the
merest ripple,
incapable of sustaining a
mute immobility
and thus its music and
silence are never its own.
Repeatedly, stirrings of ire
and sanctimony
jostle the chime within me,
shattering all composure.
Yet, its clang and clamor is
not my own!
It comes from a tempestuous source
to which I have
for ages been a slave and
which I now renounce;
seek to still and soften its influence;
diligently
labor to insulate my gossamer
susceptibilities
from the harsh winds of Maya
and Mind.
O child of God, the source of
discordant music
is your cracked and misshapen
instrument of self.
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