Still as a dead monk
Intentional ignorance of pain
No adjustments, no voice.
Brown mosquitos the size of
Hummingbirds feeding from the temple
Blood throws directly into
proboscis, a straw sipping
gently, buzzing still.
No thoughts. No words.
No writing or reading and
Ten Years. Ten days.
No friends. Little food.
No thoughts. No words.
So ascetic, though I got quite distracted by the size of your mosquitoes.
The starkness came through beautifully. Thank you