nine

The night contains but two elements
And the heart is consumed therein

Sometimes it feels as if the whole thing really is vapor
Striving after wind

And it isn’t a test
But it feels like a test so much of the time

The process is the purpose
But the purpose is the processor

So what to do with the days
When the days are evil

And what to do with the night
When the night brings no relief

We burn as so many distant embers
Luminous in potentiality or the past

The parched masses groan
For what they cannot identify

To be washed in the water of the word
When the ears that would hear have been closed by design

The path ambles ever onward
Narrowing on the horizon’s edge