I see my west. No fantasies
Return as such. I’ll be remade,
Music of an honest silence.
Try finding apt analogies
For the foolishness of wisdom.
Life, in sum, is not a problem
And admits of no solution.
Imagine the impossible
Narrative of the perfect life,
A life, at least, we must admire.
How likely that that life’s maker
Left us the set of instructions?
Why would we trust such instructions?
We ponder and we hunt for clues
In the ruins, clues we pretend
Could be assembled as wisdom
We could consult for instructions.
How disappointing when the life
We presume produced the best clues
Makes for an awful narrative.
We toss out the clues and harrumph.
But that’s not it, not apt enough.
Awareness is spindrift; wisdom
Is the enlightenment of ants.
I have tried those analogies
As well, and others. They all fail.
This futility is just fine.
Futility only exists
For optimistic Sisyphus.
For once, leave the stone where it is
Or push, if to pulse is to live.
There’s no need to get to the top,
No analogy. Wisdom is.