Death And Transfiguration Poem by Richard St. Clair

King Louis, to the guillotine unwilling,
protested every way he could with words
that fell upon their ears like rotten turds
as singing birds indifferent went on trilling.
Now while the masses go on vainly fighting,
all quiet is the chapel's empty room
as if it were an unmarked grave or tomb,
abandoned to redemption's distant lighting.
And as the crashing waves continue heaving,
weeping, I, for beings high and low,
wondering if they'll be where I will go,
when from this coil rejoicing I'll be leaving
for the Buddha's paradise, not heaven,
the karma of my life now fully leavened.