The Sunday Poem

Born from reading too much philosophy

O that I were dead again

we know everything dies

Yes

so how about Death Himself

He could be finite just as life is

how can I know this

it’s just words

terrible feeble weasels

broken vessels that leak reality

few words ever ‘matter’

the matter with things is that

we natter on about stuff, life and death

we crave control with words

while hidden like a depth charge lies

Reality Itself

Das Ding An Sich

the more I chase it

the more it eludes my grasp

unknowable until I die

when I will finally let it fly

release reality as I know it

and enter those secret hidden realms

outside of space/time/and words

Death might be a lover

Seductive, secretive, and like all the others

Temporary