There is an art to meditation.There is an art to contemplation. Gaze we at our navels and bend, Protruding our bowels for investigation. There is an art to verbal tension.
There is a time for inner thoughts. There is a time for fists on chins. Gaze we down our forearms, hard Squatting on the marble floor. There is a time for words of wit.
There is a place for open hearts. There is a place for ruddied shins. Gaze not upon the quiet wind, Kneeling near the altar stone. There is a place for ink and pen.
And then there is not. And then there we start. Gaze neither in nor outwards, heart Laying prostate on the gentle rug. And then there we are.