the buddha's monologue

I sit, fat and bold,
Wooden but not cold
In a corner, here,
With rippling folds of sculpted skin
On a shelf, by the windowledge.

I am an icon,
Religious, revered (but never feared),
Merely a statue, here.

You look upon me as a comfort;
"Every house should have a Grateful Dead CD and a Buddha"
Said Stevie B - he was speaking of me -
That tall, silver-haired one with a stoop.

I just sit here
And if I imbue a smile,
As a specimen of a more balanced
Empathetic life,
Then I am pleased.

I know what I represent,
The ideals that my form defends,
"Worship not false idols', they said,
But in the end, who's to say what's false
And what's not?
Does it matter alot?

If I can induce a feeling of peace
Then my stock-still life has been worthwhile,
I feel my power in hours of desperation;
I may not move,
I may never walk, or run,
Go out dancing for sheer, unbridled fun,
But I am aware, all-knowing,
My purpose is true,
I just like to keep the love flowing for you.