Anatta.

Not eye, that sensual
lie,
Empty, Self nowhere,
Somewhere? Over
there?
Not conducive, just
eight then fold,
forth and bold, but
moving not ahead,
Burning magnification
til the ant is dead,
Ignore not, methodical,
periodical,
Impossible? Logical?
Reason toward the
death of reason,
Maybe some other
season,
From the mid point,
the mid path,
There is no 'me' out
there,
Distant seeking what is
already found, lost
somewhere without
a sound,
Deep goes the ground...
-END-
(C) D.C. Chapman
03/11/2013