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  • Paul D. Wilke

Our Mercy


I.

Life is always,

but you are not.

You come and go,

an accident,

an ever-striving me

clinging to self.

Next to the endless

stars in heaven

and the echoing

caverns of time,

me is but a whimper

in the empty,

and no one is listening.

II.

Life is always,

an again

and again,

and again,

with death,

then life,

always,

again,

and forever it goes,

a circle,

not a line,

a spiral,

not an arrow,

the cemetery the beginning,

and the womb the end,

of a silent interlude

in an endless cycle.

Grace is not knowing

all that came before

each rebirth to decay

renewed.

God is the vain hope

it'll all make sense

when Death blots out

and purges the ego,

a quiet mercy,

a prelude to rebirth,

again,

a manifestation of life,

renewed,

riding the spiral out,

always,

alone in the end,

always.

III.

Life is always,

somewhere,

some time,

but me is just

this here,

this now,

a flash,

then gone,

with new 'me's

blooming

to bask in

sunlight for a moment.

And so it appears

tragic,

this forever fraying

fabric,

for the bonds

we forge

are ultimately naught.

Vanity is vain,

and love transient,

our fictions give us

the magic to believe

it might be otherwise.

Our mercy.


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