ArtsAutosBooksBusinessEducationEntertainmentFamilyFashionFoodGamesGenderHealthHolidaysHomeHubPagesPersonal FinancePetsPoliticsReligionSportsTechnologyTravel
  • »
  • Books, Literature, and Writing

Greyson Sweetbrook 3

Updated on May 5, 2016

flickering flames, winds

flickering flame, winds

of age separating the

soul from its moorings,

the wick of youth

growing small and curled.

I can't find solace in

books, in ideas, in anything

but nothing at all.

so I sit and I take it,

thoughts, too, are

subject to the burn,

susceptible to collapsing,

to not working. the

assault on identity,

the integrity, be you

clever or dull, is

insulting. this is

hell. it must be.

for is anything more

horrific than forgetting

the basics, the balance,

I may forget it, but

it doesn't forget me.

it's there, progressing

through the night, forcing

it's agenda on me, on

everything. it's death,

and death is a common

thing. but common as

it may be, it is no less

than the collapsing of

the universe into a

pin dot so small it begs

to be significant. like

I was. I am the wildebeest

that the alligator caught,

at least in this episode.

yeah, it's dark man. it's

depressing. it's dismantling

the tool I use to understand,

which is me. can I be

something so impermanent?

the Buddha poses that, but

I find it taunting, taunting and

slightly offensive, to call

no shelter a shelter, and to

call nothingness Nirvana

is a creep toward dark edges

but maybe that's where we

were meant to live.


    0 of 8192 characters used
    Post Comment

    No comments yet.