The Unlikely Buddha

 The moon, a pearl upon the velvet night,  Waxing gibbous, casts a silver light.  Night descends, a hush falls on the land,  Secrets whisper, mysteries at hand. Will the fairies dance, with wings of gossamer fine, Underneath the moon, a shimmering line?  In meadows bathed in lunar glow,  They pirouette and dip, a silent show. Their laughter tinkles, like wind chimes in the breeze,  As they chase fireflies through the rustling trees.  Mushrooms glow, their lanterns in the dark,  Guiding tiny steps, leaving not a mark. On lily pads they float, like boats of jade,  Singing songs of starlight, serenades  To slumbering flowers, dreaming dreams unseen, In this realm of moonlight, where fairies convene. But watch with caution, for they flit and they hide,  These creatures of magic, in moonbeams they confide.  A glimpse of their beauty, a whisper of their song,  Is all a mortal glimpses, ere they vanish long. So close your ey...

  Beneath the vaulted halls of night, where shadows dance in silent grace, A symphony of sandalwood unfolds, a haunting perfume in this space. Here, dreams lie fallow, whispers dim, on beds of longing, unmade still, A tapestry of might-have-beens, where questions echo, cold and chill. For who, in this vast, indifferent void, can answer cries that pierce the dark? No deity descends with solace, no whispered truth to leave its mark. The heavens, draped in velvet black, offer no solace, no reply, Just endless silence, echoing back, "Why ask, if answers ever die?" Perhaps the universe, a tapestry, woven with threads of chance and whim, Offers no grand design, no purpose, just the dance of atoms, cold and grim. Are we but specks upon its face, adrift in currents we can't control, Doomed to ask and never know, whispers lost in an endless scroll? Or maybe, in the depths of self, a flicker of defiance burns, A spark that dares to question fate, a yearning for what life...