The Hole

Being’s a hole in nothingness,
an imperfection soon repaired,
though it seems to take forever
and what I am is scared.

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The Gap

Between the act
and the thought behind it,
life exists
if I can find it.

Otherwise,
what use is breathing
or anything
of my conceiving?

In Circles

We do not own ourselves
but borrow from the living stream
a spool of life. Turning is all we know:
patterns that haunt the world, disintegrate,
drifting like smoke and fading out.

Intangibles, we grip the intangible.
Belief is a rock we cling to as we go:
floating through the day, we keep on living,
carried by the stream that has no end…
that passes through us…that we’re passing through…

I drew a circle with a compass.
A sort of god emerged, full of immense power,
but it did not speak…
so I drew another…
and another…