Tangled in a Thought that Isn’t Mine

I’m not the thought that just escaped
from the cat’s belly,
nor the shadow on the wall that denies its existence.
A call to arms, a telephone off the hook,
as Zen monks throw rocks through the windows
of authority.
The sound of silence is loud enough to make you forget.

In the rumble of the city,
thoughts intertwine,
like vines around a forgotten statue,
climbing toward the sun,
yearning for a voice.
But I am just a passerby,
a flicker in the corner of the eye,
wondering at the cacophony
that dances in the periphery.

What is this thought that clings,
like smoke in an empty room?
It whispers sweetly,
yet claws at my mind,
a tempest of voices
that don’t belong to me.
I stand at the crossroads,
where echoes collide,
the weight of others’ dreams heavy on my shoulders.

The monks chant,
their words shattering the still,
each syllable a pebble thrown
in the pond of conformity.
And I catch the ripples,
watch them twist and spiral,
asking, “Is this mine?”
as the world spins,
a carousel of borrowed ideas.

So here I am, tangled,
lost in the weave of thoughts,
seeking clarity in the chaos,
as the loud silence envelops me,
a cocoon of unspoken truths.
I breathe in deep,
and let the thought drift,
like a feather on the breeze,
searching for a place
where it might finally belong.