Beings are being
born, constantly,
beginning their
journeys,
to becoming.
Moments are
born,
and you and I,
you a writer,
I a reader,
on either
side
of a page,
to each our
own perhaps cage
to which we
nonetheless
hold the key.
One of us has to be
more sensitive
than the other,
it is
supposed, for the
chain to keep
flowing, throwing itself
outward, a
rattle, the
sound of rain,
foxes mating
at dawn,
lawns covered
with ravens,
And branches covered
with chickadees,
singing
their morning song.
Beings are being born,
beginning their journeys,
to becoming. They begin
in company, and then end up
in loneliness,
and then
in company,
and then
again in loneliness,
Until we discover
that the meaning of life
is sacrifice, who or what
you choose to sacrifice
yourself for, because you
cannot be anyone
or anything unless
you are nullified by love.
eatartdaily 