Mist
The loudest sound in a
mountain of mist
A cascading house of cards
Sand castles founded on
fountains of myth
Still awaiting their
thousand guards
To protect projections,
assumptions and frame
To project protection on a
place with no name
For, unchained by the range
of all possible worlds
Is the sameness of change,
that philosopher’s pearl
Not to be one’s own nemesis,
to trust life’s tuition
To accept as first premises
flux and transition:
To resign from the mental
request to collect
And refine transcendental
redress to forget
Dead hands of the past,
irrelevancies
For plans shift so fast that
tranquility
In the face of denial of all
once held dear
Is a grace in the trial of
conquering fears
Instilled by a culture so
squeamish of death
That they can’t see the
vultures for the steam off their breath—
Hot air being vital for
lofting balloons
It affects not the slightest
that softest of swoons
That cyclic commencement,
spinning to blend
Endless beginnings,
objectiveless ends
Do neglect to revere those
confounding and frightful
Perspectives appearing
profound and insightful
That proceed in their serial profusion
of chatter
To misperceive the material,
misuse the word “matter.”
And dance in this foam at
the edge of creation
You’re never alone in this
manifestation.
Fear not the cost of sand
through the fist
For nothing is lost when
everything’s mist.