Well, I knew m’lord was a prevaricating, bloodlust child — the writs of Rolfe d’Hampole had warned — unceasing sycophant, his incarnadine shadow spilt down dim stairwells to redden more, divagating before oak branches in nightfall, exhorter of few changes, hardly any. 
 
Not a koan  
(how could  
 
it  
be impaled?)   
 
— religious type, agnostic,  
he and child both listened to reason while a temple friend sliced  
off a nipple. It was the middle way,  
enlightenment simplified, spelling it out. 
Lightning over fog. Over ravines. Knower and the known, all branches, all matter —  
 
A sweet industrial morsel went for all 3 doors assuming no threshold ahead where materiality can’t exist. No dissonance, no interruption.  
 
These ways could also be the middle  
 
as Buddha and Buddhists are different things.