Drip - drop, oh weary soul,
Why does your kind ascend so high, seek the tall,
In a hall of hallowed transcendence,
Hoping to mend this chasm within?
Call me here, anchor me deep,
Lest I sink beneath the tide,
Can anyone truly breathe,
Or are we all buried in the heath?
Nothing lasts forever.
Things diminish, they ebb away,
Drip by drip, dissolved in time’s relentless flow.
My father speaks of becoming less,
To recede, to yield,
To embrace a state of absence —
For only in that surrender can one become whole.
Is it in becoming, or in being,
That the essence lies?
Which is which?
And, dare I ask,
Which path is the sweeter delight?
Architecture is but one vine,
In a garden of endless passions entwined.
But passions, too, are fleeting, self-consuming —
No flame guards its own permanence.
To hold without being held,
That is our plight.
A selfishness veined with longing,
Call me cynical, but I am alive —
Thinking without doubting,
Breathing without questioning,
Yet knowing my thoughts give me form —
Cogito, ergo sum, and yet…
Is there no bound to this aching desire?
Oh, what shall a man do?
Bbumba,
December 2018