In that fleeting moment,
the night sky could have exploded.
Maybe, it did?
This transience of everything…
Seeking fluid freedom, outside and within
Traveling distances and wandering through your own being
Inwards, outwards, consciously, unconsciously…
Is that all?
Is there a meaning,
or an absolute absence of it?
Maybe poetry was created
so that our delusions remain well fed,
or was it the other way round?
I was told that there’s only one poem that you write,
just one poem, all your life…
…in different words and phrases.
I think it must be called
The Perpetual Fleetingness
Sometimes, a jumbled up Unpoem
is all that saves the memory of a memory.
So be it.