The broken ventriloquist parachuted
beyond the road, past even the living greens,
a wanderer in a straw hat
seeking life’s spark – that fire
that animates existence fully
and follows no formation.
Who paints the living? Who plants
the dead? In the end where do we go?
Asking questions with motionless lips,
he failed to hear the smoke
or any other meaning
and missing his traveling companion
returned to the road, lost after Genesis,
holding only clay.
The moon goes round the earth, tilted
but not for me. Storms come in
at a time as people
float in and out of my life, flotsam passing
out of sight.
Living in the nots we are but leaves
so leave the dirt
behind as the earth tilts towards
another winter, another spring
out of nowhere.
We are all but visitors, sojourning
through where we think
we ought to reside
sometimes thinking forward, often
Or perhaps we are visions, soldiering
as we can, knowing
the world ends
when we’re dead and yet
clinging to the gift of possible.
Sometimes there is no deeper meaning and
a rose is just a flower.
So we petal through
wondering what it all matters,
even if we are just matter.