Well Being

As such, is not the subject,

Nor the great vision nor goal

Of any big religion

That I, the heretic, know.
Therefore I apostrophize
This gorgeous apostasy,

Piquant, epicurean,
Sensuous, ethereal,
Simple sense of contentment.

It's no cause for conversion.
No one needs to be convinced.
All aching humans desire

To feel desire for nothing.
We want to not be in want
And only mock what we want

When we dread we can't have it,
This not wanting anything,
This moment beside the fire,

The right music chiming
In the closest of quiets,
A moon overhead, somewhere,

Shining in the pureness
Of effortless reflection,
Deep, shimmering, well, being.