(Life’s) Just a Physical Reaction (To the Illusion That’s the World)


Expressing the oppressive burden
of a mind’s machinery whose gears
dæmons keep turning, fears asserting
life’s just a physical reaction

to the illusion that’s the world burn
urnfuls of ash and tears, yearned-
for awful midnight oils purged until
fragrances emerge to calm wholesale

enervating ailments balm conceals,
yours is the most exquisite enclave
of tranquility, how I envy
with unwavering intensity

of contemplation, apprehending
its unequalled beauty, the peerless
vastness and stillness of ascetic
wildernesses of bygone haunting

possibility promised by the
silent solitude of your verdant
hermitage, you are most fortunate
among women forbidden men who

forego cohabitation with love’s
makers to seek their creator in
the midst of creation’s vacant depths,
forest paths entrances to pasts life


lets pass by those types too consumed with
regret to let inhibit their ruse,
delusion of progress toward which
only fools press, on cliff’s-edge instead

of getting the happiness I got
when neither said one syllable and
yet we both did blush, our souls having
kissed, hearts touched while our bodies did not,

understating now what wonderful
understanding I stood then, and now
still, in awe of, that when quieted,
want satisfies itself, provides us

enough when denied its pride’s chaos
rushing after so much excess, what
unnecessary stuff, those useless
excuses to avoid having to

sit in presence of, in colloquy
with, true awareness of absence that
nagging thing, that void, most refuse to
acknowledge, death’s impatience which waits

for no one but teaches resilience
when facing silvered reflections of
leaden selfishness, from that blackened
direction Saturn returns to mourn.