The Flute in Buddha’s Hands

I ended up in the wrong place—

the kind of gig

where your bones don’t sing,

they grind.

wearing a suit that doesn’t know me,

face locked in a frown

like someone else died

and I took their job.

there’s noise in here,

a riot behind the ribs,

but no music

just a goddamn flute

in Buddha’s hands,

and he doesn’t blow.

everything feels like backwards swimming.

they call it a path—

I call it a leash

stitched from other people’s plans.

when you’re not doing what you were built for,

life gets heavy,

dull,

like dragging a grand piano through wet sand.

the real stuff—

the quiet thread under your breath—

gets buried beneath polite hellos

and unpaid dreams.

and when Buddha finally plays the flute,

not his tune, not his time,

it screeches.

not a song,

a sentence. 

.