"It was as if he had written a poem about a graceful antelope who had the back half of a leopard and the habit of flying over the arctic ice."
Nothing exists. Each moment is
Always the changing of the guard.
Even the past does not exist,
As the past is what is changing,
And what is changing is likely
As not the riddle of the naught,
Change as what was, and nothing
Is on the way. The exact thought
Of being a being is lost
In the identification
Of the infinite and empty
Set as none and the same. Monsters
Of the imagination fly
Over arced, antic ice. We are
The saddle between the leopard
And the last of the antelope.