There is an involuntary act in being.

As a river flows along the contours of land,

I breath

in and out,

and existence Is.

Where does that leave the meaning

of where I stand?

Rain will fall hard one day,

and I hope I find shelter.

For I feel these clouds know not what they do.

They simply are,

as I am,

in place,

following the churning of atmosphere.

The fickle winds,

blind and weightless,

kiss timelessness and a subtle surrender —

met with god-like strength —

peel the sky.

I am not these clouds,

and I am glad,

so my lungs, and porous skin

soak in the wet tears of heaven.

I become a lake,

all rivers flow to me —

and from me —

standing firmly in place

holding back the weight of inception.

My own being,

and all being,

comes from this place where I stand drowning.

Breath is no longer a gift

given so freely,

and now I envy the wondering clouds,

free in their suspended world,

oblivious to the space they occupy.

Existing subject to the whims of an invisible force.

2 thoughts on “Being

  1. This is good stuff. I appreciate your words and how they help define the world in which we live. Keep up the good work. I look forward to more.


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