My form is fading.

Yet Time persists and

Substance lingers

on the tongue of the tiger—

withered by fire and

water,

falling to its knees.

 

What I conceive

are minuscule ripples

on the leaves of

a generation’s unlocked

potential.

 

And from that,

the ripples grow into waves,

washing away Truth and

Time and

all those tantalizing

tremors that haunted a people. . .

until Silence rang.

 

And forth came the Sun,

calling to the Moon

and the spirits

and the Heavens,

for its echoes to be heard,

for its rays to be cast,

for the ripples and the waves

to become whirlpools

and for the whirlpools

to leave emptiness in the wake of sustenance,

and eternity in the wake of nothingness.

 

Who am I?

A fleeting form?

Lasting flesh?

An unrealized dream on the shores

of a realm unknown?

Am I a puppet—a mere pawn

in the checkerboard of ever-advancing

kings and queens?

 

Or am I a vessel?

Is this a capsule in which I

breathe? In which I speak? In which I write?

Is this a pathway to find

a light that cannot be found,

but which can only not be found

due to the unfoundedness of my mind?

 

Am I a man who dreamt of being a butterfly,

or am I a butterfly dreaming that I am a man?*

 

I have found

that I am the horizon.

I am the shore and the

solstice.

I am comprised of yin and yang—

a compromise of all things dual—

yet there is a oneness to my being

which cannot be put down

in words.

 

*Zhuangzi (circa 260 BCE)