things live, or live not;
die, or die not
and (in a dour mood, a
sunset cigarette) i cannot tell
what is living, or dying.
people, love, empires, ideas
and underneath, the Others--
the bricks that shelter me from weather
and the rain they partition:
these survive, neither living nor passing,
impartial to me, and my thoughts.
in times to come, what will survive
of me, my loves, my constructs and ideas
is nothing: a pile of dust and air.
i am left a ghost-ship on the sea of Time
adrift as i am aloof unto
these passive things that shall speak to my sons
as i shall not.
things living not, dying not,
until all life's flames snuff out.
the passing wind,
a mourning tale,
blows ever on.
march 2012
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