Uncertainty,
by Odin Roark

Why is eternity such a mystery,
giving us so little time to find sense in it all?

Are voices on the stairs
merely thoughts too elusive to pursue?

Then again…

Might the answers be there amidst the intangible?
Does that make it not matter when the cosmos invites
us into the new darkness?

Here we lay.

Weathered curtains drawn.
Computers at rest…for how long?
Are there answers offered by the digital age?

Front and backdoor keys have gathered some cob webs
where flies, either depressed with anticipation or dead,
await the spiders feast.

Our beds remain like Gold rush engine cars,
their restless movement purging one listless whisper
made of cigarette smoke,
or breath’s condensation from the heat shut off where we live,
rising, rising…
but to where?

When movement prods us,
wiping down the spider’s home on our keys,
we venture outside where everything appears closed.

Sundays have changed.

Weddings and funerals reserved for the weekdays,
yet…

There are puffy clouds on the move,
perhaps flirting with eternity above the rooftops
starting to entice with the sunrise.

And us…

Not sure which of life’s expectations is us…
the truthful us.