I read the poetry of hermits

I read the poetry of hermits.
Pretending to be alone,
absent from this world
that is but a bowl filled with twirling dust.
Happiness is fleeting, love even more so.
Pursuing them, we trap ourselves
going around and around inside the bowl.
Better to just float about
and settle on a flower
just as its bloom retrieves into a bud-
effortlessly, joyfully,
returning to the origin.
I read the poetry of hermits.

Kenza.

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