Creating mandalas
as they waltz on their toes-
blooming like lotuses
in a stagnant pond;
their cores are pupils
welling with tears:
weeping beneath
the shadows of nimbus.
Rings with no beginning
neither an end;
silent are their echoes
as they flow like silk.
The only audience
aware of the pool-
are soles of filth
awaiting to be cleansed.
From a curtain of raindrops,
on roads they now rest-
searching for the face:
the advent of death.
Anticipating the fact
that heat is preferred,
ripples embrace
as they're consumed
by the earth.
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