The Burning

Sand glass

Time is fire.

Flames touch and contemplate

The whiz of is,

The fleeing now

And render it to dust.

One must allow

The evanescence of reality

To flow and form,

To turn and burn,

To eviscerate concern

So the lightning flash

Of instantaneity

Transforms all to ash,

To flakes and broken glass

To possibilities unrealized.

Each second is a blind step

Into the dark of what may be

Where one can only guess, not see.

One cannot spot

What is yet not.

There must still be

Some latent possibility,

Some value sense

To recompense

Cloudy unknowingness,

An egress to possess

Solidity.

It is a ghost.

At most a host to hope.

There is the lightest scent,

The vapor of an element

Of security.

A spice in air

To repair despair.

It does not sustain

Nor does it last

This whiff of God,

This gentle touch of tenderness

Cannot spare

Crumblings of reality.

There’s nothing there.

Nothing there.

Mere sweet breeze.

A caress of ease

From God knows where.

 

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One thought on “The Burning

  1. “The Whiff of God, This gentle touch of tenderness” and “Mere sweet breeze, A caress of ease From God knows where”
    I appreciate all of your creations, and this one in particular. Thank you, Jan.

    Like

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