Not who but what defines the core
Of existence where we store our sense and sensibilities.
Within the incessant storm of possibility
Internal unity must withstand that hand
Of fickle fingers reaching out for hope or desperation,
Both frustrated by evanescent ghosts that grin and flit
To excite tergiversation, to decide which it is it.
The self expands, contracts to demands,
Flails or fails to commands for consequence
While straining for the tools that fit, mutate
To shape the floating galaxies and educate the volvox
Out of flagellating conflicts with the currents of infinity.
Nowhere and nonsense integrate in love and hate
To sprout green grass into luxuriance that glistens with delight.
The me and me and me and me can crumble at the edges,
Bleed a scented excellence that might frighten actuality
To probe the sunlight with pink nose and whiskered curiosities.