My form is fading.
Yet Time persists and
Substance lingers
on the tongue of the tiger--
withered by fire and
water,

falling to its knees.

What I conceive
are minuscule ripples
on the leaves of
a generation's unlocked
potential.

And from that
the ripples grow into waves,

washing away Truth and
Time and
all those tantalizing
tremors that haunted a people. . .

Until Silence rang.

And forth came the Sun,
calling to the Moon
and the spirits
and the Heavens,
for its echoes to be heard,
for its rays to be cast,
for the ripples and the waves
to become whirlpools
and for the whirlpools
to leave emptiness in the wake of sustenance
and eternity in the wake of nothingness.


Who am I?
A fleeting form?
Lasting flesh?
An unrealized dream on the shores
of a realm unknown?
Am I a puppet--a mere pawn
in the checker work of ever-advancing
Kings and Queens?

Or am I a vessel?
Is this a capsule in which I
breath? In which I speak? In which I write?
Is this a pathway to find
a light
that cannot be found
but which can only not be found
due to the unfoundedness of my mind?

Am I a man who dreamt of being a butterfly,
or am I a butterfly dreaming that I am a man?*




I have found
that I am the horizon.
I am the shore and the
solstice.
I am comprised of yin and yang--
a compromise of all things dual,
yet there is a oneness to my being
which cannot be put down
in words.