and they’ll have never been

A child’s game at perception
and the ramifications thereof:
cages, immense and elastic,
spontaneous creation — corpore
reality mad and complete — — then again
into dissolution
(out of sight out of being).

How dear and distant
the dead ones sped past
on long commutes, green
volumes of empty
quickly filled, themselves
remote and possible.

What remains
is vague composite:
an uncertain chin, triggered jaw,
an unruly mat of hair unscissored,
vain perhaps,
a chameleon’s jowl.
The come and gone
mashed into a single
implausible being:
the pearled eye of one, the coke
twitched lip of another, a third hand
and then another.

Once in their passing — lament.
Today they are mist and familiar
phrases as phases of the moon.
Tomorrow, they’ll have never been,
as tomorrow slips by
unnoticed, spent like the God
that willed all selfhood.

Image: Matheus Queiroz on Unsplash

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