Contraband Halva and the Sapid Zeitgeist of Now

The words of my life form a crescent, a semilunar arch across the page,
a mantic inscription, perhaps no more than a lick and a promise,
a first swipe and hopes for more about how to reach nirvana
on the distant shore of its curved prophetic words. Contraband thoughts
try to cross metaphysical borders without shame, longing for the sweet
crushed sesame and honey of halva, a sapid replacement for the praxis
of these sacred un-teachings, a tasty memory of Mediterranean lands.
Who can make practical transitions from the metaphysical? What praxis could be?
By pure accident, mere serendipity, I discover the sheer, calm joy of ataraxia
in the curve of a sesame seed caught in honey, a zeitgeist
of the brief hunger of my time, satisfied so easily by sweet candy.