Moksha

“White!”, said the man in the fancy hat

Naming the house where the President sat

“White!”, said the man who listened

In the dark, with teary eyes that glistened.

Common cause had brought them thither,

A cause inauspicious that holds them together

Dormant they were for the past millennia

Away and disconnected from the mania

Time, indeed, is a clocksmith

He morphs the ancient legend into myth

Myths assert His circular style

Refining His World with a patient guile.

“Break the cycle”, murmured the fancy hat,

as the palm went from curled to flat

“No… I can’t!”, moaned the sad one,

unknowing, that the process had already begun

He, the destroyer, does not wait

Neither does He allow you to meditate

Time cares not, if you are on the path

And leaves just ashes in His swath

“I am ready, I will do it!”

As these words came out, it hit

The radiance of a thousand suns

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Somewhere a man in a fancy hat said “White!”

And there fell a long, dark and cold nuclear night.