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 Miroku Meditates

Weblike, the strands reach up his arm,
further and further,
numbering his hours
in trails of of black laced shouki.

Sometimes, when he thinks he is all alone,
he rolls up his sleeve
and look at the trail,
the death warrant
creeping towards his heart,
ever nearer.

At those moments,
he lets the feelings of regret roll through him,
the pain of longing
wrapped up in the sound of her warm voice,
the fire in her eyes,
the touch of her strong hand,
and tries not to let his dreams of  what might be
with  his dark-haired fighter
rip out his heart.

"Life is suffering," said the Buddha long ago.
Miroku, watching Sango from the corner of his eye
sighs,
and knows the truth about attachment.