Here, the wake
It is both what and who we leave behind Ceremony for one Reflection for the other, perhaps interchangeable Difficult to say which is the Bullet point and which is the Lasting memory I won't speak for myself But Koheleth may be a fraud Except that we all march toward the grave The grimmest horse His lucky wake, if he even existed, To be ruminated over A lasting memory confused by senses and languages He can't speak for himself Nothing is instantaneous The tactile senses take eons And may not deliver on their promises Yet they demand unconditional trust They buckle under their task The same way that language Always fails to translate electricity But we've yet to measure the wake of energy when the brain wishes to be heard It doesn't speak for itself |
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May 2016
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