The master locked inside a jealous head:
His bliss could not persist, that much was clear,
The contemplation stalled, not love nor fear,
The vision waned, a headache in its stead.
The emptiness, once lusted for, felt cruel
As though he could declare no more the true.
He preached, yet saw the inverse and the skew,
He fasted long, but constant broached the rule
For all was right and all was as foreseen,
The hollow, hallowed prose, the Ph.D.,
The sermons on the drought, the ecstasy
Of nothingness, nirvana, tao. So keen
In expectation once and now fulfilled,
"How poor I am," he laughed, "just as was willed."
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