[neutral]

It’s tightly coiled.

Snake-charmers sedate farmers who praise Rama,
Truly the job of one unafraid to face Yama!?
It’s a beautiful spectacle, the flute’s tune
Moving a serpent through its receptacle,
Though false it’s a pulse… in the heart of a festival,
& to a curious child; it’s arguably memorable,
Indeed it still sometimes sparks from the perforant path,
Years back as a young virgin to the serpentine act.
Clasping my uncle’s hand so fast it constricted,
Between nervous fear and awe, each gasp was conflicted.

I’m tightly coiled.

Practising yoga under massive pagodas,
I’m sanitary… sober, inhaling prevailing planetary odours,
& wafts of incense burning from a golden foot,
Finishing grains in the shade of a cobra’s hood,
Pretend I’m paralysed (a meditative state),
Like the Old Ones would,
Trying to extend the paradigm
& walk on scorched rock which a Nova cooked,
Or more immediately… where a soldier stood,
Framing with crosshairs; assorted scholars holding books,
& I can only watch like we are told we should,
Spiralling from the source, you’d have intervened, of course!
If only you had known you could.

We’re tightly coiled.

Cycles are unending, never undone; just timeless,
So while bending like I’m young & spineless,
I open my third eye while I shun the iris,
Unfold the base of my spine to an arrayment of lines,
Disabling my ties to the most flagrant... dumb lies,
One thought contorts to uncoil the kundalini,
On a nameless plane where its energy couldn’t leave me,
My conclusion is not a new one:
I confess. Man’s stupid.
& any image from the mirror‘s at best… translucent.
Our forms in this entire realm is cropped,
I try not to forget, thus tie myself in knots.