Death looks from within my eyes --
neither attracted nor repelled,
a life lived, all things come and go,
but this I know, death looks through my eyes,
isn't it so - I shall pass by.

Always going, never to arrive,
a surging urge,
a wavelet amongst waves,
crashing on a stony cragged shore,
foaming white waters, falling, spent and nevermore --

I will play the bones to make my blood sing
Poetic mysteries as my tears write earthen histories
washed in the ink of this pen,
a fluid flowing heart all over again:
an ancient echo, a longing ache in bones that lay awake --

As an idiot staring at forever,
profoundly dumb,
without but within,
neither compelled by mediocrity
nor attracted by individuality --

Awash in an ocean
ever blowing in a veritable wind;
inscrutably peregrinated then --