Feed on

Clear Grey

Every moment
breathing shallowly

as if not enough
intoxicating limitability
with life force not
but suicide substance
depleting what seems desirous to the world
an inner desire to cease.

Asked once, “what do I want”
revealed then, “there is nothing that I want”
nothing fulfilling that of which is yearning
what the world sounds of
…money, relationships, materials…
if only, if only.

Progressing too fast?
What a highway!
Progressing too slow?
What a boat ride!
Progressing Just Right.
Could it be otherwise?

Nothing to say
though so much is being said.
Nothing to do
though so much is being done.
Melancholically Alone
yet paradoxically Pleased
in such Solace.

Indeed, what an irony!

Leave a Reply

You must be logged in to post a comment.