the obvious end
death
and the mystery of it.
love is a chemical thing,
there is only mystery for the uninformed.
but
still I love
and soon will die;
the poetry of death is inexhaustible.
the poetry of flowers and birds is equally inexhaustible.
and when it rains everyone writes poetry about the rains.
but
we still think of a rising sun
a setting sun
in ignorance that it is the earth
that rotates on an invisible axis.
that we are always in motion,
balancing with the flat of out feet,
sometimes on our knees.
– Hoc Scripsi
the platitudes of willful resemblance 
say something