Serene, though I can’t proclaim to be,
I’ll meditate and try to see
an empty space invade the clutter,
with its own impartial lack of reverence
for the disorder of a non-impartial mind,
hoping, a spirit within to find.

I welcome the empty space, the empty time;
the perfect pause in daily deliberations;
a chance to clear audacious lust
from this discardable carcass,
marred by the interminably unjust
crimes committed,
but not acquitted;
the secret lies thus lived.

And so I sink into serenity;
but remain distracted by
a mental constellation of calamities,
that crowd an emptying mind.
These thoughts: two-faced avengers
forestalling arrival of peace;
obviating any placidity,
and I’m unable to release;

They impose their fatalist flaws,
and disquiet that perfect pause;
rambunctious thoughts arrogating
a mind ready for the taking.

Serenity never came;
an invasion foiled again.
I’ve reverted to lust and avarice,
and with them I’ll descend
to the depths of dissatisfaction;
a failure once again,
unable to find any semblance
of serenity of mind
unable in this pestilence
to free myself this time.

And that carcass, discardable though it will be,
is all I have now to house me,
a spirit taking orders from a mind;
by bodily senses preempted,
and thus tempted,
committing interminable crimes.

No, serenity is not what living
carcasses allow;
the clutter has taken over;
committing, not acquitting,
the sins of another day;
those audacious vices befitting
a spirit caught in this melee.