Thursday, January 16, 2020

Half a Bouquet

At some point, you learn
There is nothing left to do
That needs to be done.

Still you want to do
Something, finish the problem,
Accomplish something.

Still you keep writing,
Pretending to be human,
You, brute in a cage.


It is a strange cage—
No lock, no bars, open sides.
The floor looks like snow.

There is a table—
Simple flowers in a jar.
Nothing is moving,

Not so you can tell.
Well, and what will you do now,
If this is your world?


Parts of the world want
The rest of the world to give
Them what it does not.

Parts of the world want
For nothing at all, until
Other parts eat them,

Turn them into lives,
Worlds in worlds in worlds that want
What the world does not.


If there were a world
Where no life ever ended,
Nothing wrong with that.

If there were a world
Where every wish was granted,
Nothing wrong with that.

This is not that world,
But why defend it, when there’s
Nothing wrong with that?


If everything is
As is, where fantasies cease,
Deep wonder begins.

Change is relentless
In every direction, but
Directions remain

Where nothing has changed.
How can this be possible?
How can these be facts?


The world of mountains,
Whose lives spin flowers from light,
Spins on, day and night,

This cage and a home,
The changing you cannot change,
This wind in your ears.

Come to the unknown.
It is not that hard to reach.
One thought and you’re here.

No comments:

Post a Comment

Note: Only a member of this blog may post a comment.