The Habit of Ten Thousands

Buddha soul lives in
The trouble
Of a ten-thousand
Year old
Habit
Of formless forming
Forms
Formally worn
Over sand bone
And stardust glitter
My shepherd hath
No flock to gawk at
Insistently
And has himself found
Self
There, without self!
Ha ha ha.
No worm for your
Forever heart!
No grass for your
Forever plot
Marked with cross
And stone
No burial
Shroud for your loud
Color
Ghost
Just wind
And sky
And foreverness
Which comes of itself
Out of habit
Over the course of
Ten thousands.