Archive
03/08/12 - (1)
Jet
The ever-depleting days of my forward-soaring lifetime Are the heated exhaust vapors of a supersonic jet, Gradually evaporating in the slipstream it weaves across the sky.
To where it's flying and why, in such whining, screeching haste, My metaphorizing eyes and simile-spinning mind can't ideate; Indeed, even my poetry-breathing imagination is stymied.
Then again, I realize it makes so little difference, if any at all, Since my existence isn't a simile, let alone a metaphor, Rather, at best, a suspiring synecdoche of mortality,
The quintessence of evanescent is and was and will be, Transitory being and nonbeing, forever and forever, ad infinitum, In one seamless skein of the cosmos's divine holistic code.
So, here I am, nearing twilight's horizon, At the apogee of my life's spontaneously unwinding flight, Trying to fathom how I've arrived at such icy heights,
With little more than clay and bone and flesh and brain, Able, nonetheless, despite gravity, space, and time, To forget that death is my jet's final destination.
03/08/12 - (1)
|
|||
|
|||
