Never come back to that when......
where sometime you're gonna end,
struck with what may sometimes be
some joy, some note or sorrows need.
I wonder at times how mundane and sick,
dense, membraneous, dyspraxic and thick,
are we, the owners of this passing parade.
But that's the parcel, as it is, we are made.
Funny how all the things we are used to,
things we mysteriously cling to and eschew,
not knowing or realizing we wear it like plague;
in the end, it and everything, are what we made.
Like addicts we need a structure to frame us,
hoping for solid raw contentment to sustain us.
But structures fall and falling away become new
and suddenly, our box is not from where we flew.
Sustain me, for the end is nowhere to be found,
hold me, torn from mornings, from chaos crowned,
it is not mine to know, nor is it mine to master.
The end not really the end, not chasm nor disaster.