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.