Obsidian Cœur

 
The carved jade, the silk weavings,
the candles, flowers, jars, and incense,
stand as honor guards to the calm.

Generations of veneration
smile in mock immunity.

He could borrow rage,
booze-filled howls and a hard-on
for notoriety, a stupor for the weak.

Sober, skin cold on sacred stone,
he converts the temple, yin to yang,
holiness to rubble.

Cracks, dust, colors ashed,
hammering thoughts to grunts,
he emerges, his palm gritted
around the dark sphere, obsidian cœur.

The ball drinks light and shines.
Pulsing out of place —
is it his pivot, or he its own?

The black dot defines the white,
until shadows move the sun.
What was obscured is revealed.

The master watches and nods.