Unbearable Compassion

by indigosparke

It is a preparation for death.

A ritual.

To wring yourself dry and then sit.

Thoughts float by like clouds Sometimes I fumble for them Sometimes I watch them pass I clear myself so that nature can pass through me or so that I can pass through nature


I still hold pockets of space for you, all of you, in my body

but I’m ready to let them go with each exhale