If we allowed ourselves to listen,
we would hear, a truth so profound
that our rigid sense of self would melt
like butter in the sun.
There is much that we claim to be,
but who we are, the transformation
and journey we take in search of substance,
can confound even reason.
The only truism that is buried in certainty,
is that who we are can never be static.
Every bit of us is compelled to vibrate, with uncertainty,
until fixed to the rhythm of existence, by perception.
Thus, life and death is but an instance, not the whole.
What flows onto the shore of perception
is both revealing and mired in the deception
that we like to refer to as time.
A time, that is quick to greet us without feelings.
A time whose only real purpose is to
frame our presence in what
we all know to be empty.
Surrounded by emptiness, no wonder we feel
the urge to leave monuments to our passing.
No wonder we need love to inspire our moments.
We search for substance not in vain, but out of hope.
For what is the value of a journey if not filled with hope,
or a transformation that cannot share experience with love.
Even if we are truly only ethereal moments in the cosmic wind,
to play my part – ” I am,” is all I feel the need to know.