Reality’s Enigmatic Meaning

It begins like fog rolling downhill,

soft-footed,

uninvited,

a thought that forgets its name.

Light flickers like a moth’s hesitation,

and the self stutters forward,

half-formed, half-fleeing.

Then comes the sprint,

a pulse breaking glass,

energy vaulting over reason

like a deer startled by its own shadow.

We chase it,

barefoot through the mind’s underbrush,

scraped by questions we can’t name as we stall.

The body becomes a cul-de-sac,

a roundabout of longing where soul and skin circle endlessly.

We are traffic jams of meaning,

horns blaring in languages we refuse to learn.

Still, we move like tectonic plates beneath belief,

slow, grinding toward some myth of arrival,

where absence wears the color of sunrise on a beggar’s cheek.

Love’s visit comes with the moon’s wink lost in daylight,

a tear that evaporates before it’s understood,

while elsewhere, it whispers beginnings

that bloom like moss on forgotten stone.

But truth…

It pirouettes wearing a make-believe tuxedo,

arriving not as revelation,

but as a magician of sorts  

sending rabbits mindlessly jumping from magic hat to magic hat.

You smile, then laugh, and suddenly,

everything crazy feels lighter,

as the pursuit of reality’s meaning continues.