When the thread of music fades
The buzz and hum of an everyday busyness
And a silence slips inside,
You pause and consider…
The ends and means, the in-betweens.

The sounds that surround
The clamor of voices and passions
Of loves lost and gained
Of culture, cerebral yearnings, heroism and damnation,
The world that flits under the fluorescent light
Bedazzled by its own self-sustainment,
Is not enough somehow.
The real world spends most of its time in the darkness of unperception.
Grand trees decaying in the solitary company of stars,
Mountains sighing their substance away into the wind and sea,
The rebirth of violent volcanoes,
And sharp moonlight
All these and more will persevere long into the coming ages.

The marrow that drives my body
Seems to have crept out of the house
In the quiet of night
And I shiver in my dreams and lament a loss I know not how to cope with.
She stands away in a pale Buddha-hood of her own
Teaching high morals in a world that used to be my home
In a life I can’t remember.
And I couldn’t care less.
My keep is with the inanimate.
The uncultured.
The unculturable and eternal.
I walk through meadows of crashing columns of sandstone.
And fall on to the grass myself.
My eyes close.