the perfection of this moment
and the longing that remains, receding
always just out of grasp.
present and future
exist only now.
always the same now
only the perspective changes
and there’s nothing there.
silence is golden.
these words are almost as good,
but there’s no one else to even read them.
why do they emerge,
from nothing and back again?
there must be something more to be done.
the appearance is just as real as the dissolution.
truly, there is nothing beyond consciousness
to absolve oneself of the mystery of existence.
no other word to be taken
no other book to supplicate
no other pathway to final completion
beyond the transience of forms.
there’s nowhere else to kick the can down the road,
and no can,
and no kick.
death is not
this or that,
and neither is life.
the mystery remains.
the journey leads right here.
there seems to be a game being played.
what do I create?