Where does this end, he wonders
Again and again, pointing to a wave or the sky
Blinded by an echo with no double.
One with the flatness.
Never truly remembered, never forgotten, either.
All the books he dreams of writing,
They are but one.
And that, not even a book,
Just an endlessly repeating page,
Barely marked with words.
Where blew a flower may a flower no more
Lift its head to the blows of the rain
Though he can go mad, he shall be sane,
Though he sinks through the sea, he shall rise again;
Though lovers be lost, love shall not;
After the first death, there is no other.
Lean against time for the end of waiting,
Swathing folds of moments crammed in a breath
Life itself, a eulogy to falling apart, across the years
Forever foreign, forever ours.