the platitudes of willful resemblance

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