He thought by doing all things “right”
this corpse would obediently come around.
He thought by worshipping a photo
he served the living source.
He thought he was being religious.
He thought if he followed the words of truth
he’d drink truth’s fire-origin.
He thought it was simpler than it was.
He thought he had 1479 concerns;
he had one.
He thought to ignore the clench within his ribs
and the even harder labor it spoke of.
He thought techniques were not techniques,
and he engaged them with devotion.
He thought sacrifice was cutting,
not forgetting.
He thought he understood what is prior
to what he thought.
He thought the body's pleasure
a hydra-headed witch.
He thought celibacy was a discipline,
not divine enchantment in an absorptive state.
He thought he’d given up the world,
but the outer world lived on inside.
He thought his friends walked only
in the shadow of their common flag.
He thought the man didn’t mean
literally what he shouted.
He thought that flame couldn't touch
his skin.
He thought the return he made and remade
was not the great path of return.
He thought— like most things—
this too could be slept off.
He thought the loss was
surmountable.
He thought he was among the chosen.
He thought he was getting away with it.
He thought many things,
and many things thought him.
He thought wrong.
And he made a mockery,
if only for now,
he thought.