Whatever
Nov 15 2009


Another Sunday, mid-November
of thin light
cool wetness,
with the hollowed-out feeling
of giving up.
Patiently waiting
for whatever comes.

The masters of destiny
we once believed in
were false gods
all along.
We felt driven
moved mountains
re-invented ourselves,
all for naught.
Because change is random, swift
indifferent.
While we are miniscule
and insignificant.
Even the stars and the planets
magnificently wheeling through space
are slowly running down
growing dim,
coasting to the end of time
on the energy
with which they began.

We want to believe
in good deeds
posterity
remembrance.
We resist fate,
but in the end, surrender,
clutching our gizmos
posing
warding-off the dark.
Because underneath
we are ancient, naked,
appeasing our gods
convinced we are exceptional
constructing our flimsy vessels
of meaning.

I like this passive feeling;
the struggle was far too much,
submission becomes me.
An angry ocean
has turned calm
and bottomless.
It grows dark
as I go under,
a slip-stream of bubbles
is a single frayed strand,
a life-line
extending up.