And we are all tired,
Wondering when, those
Towers shall
Tumble; when we ascend
Shall we again
Stumble; a question again
Folds up,
We stuff it
In the back pocket.

And we are all
Frightened, of an end that means
Something different
Than what we
Wanted;
Memories
Do not haunt
Us, it is we
Who are haunting
Them.

And we are all terribly bad
At being what should have been;
Should a human hand
Touch god; shall
A heart break
Bread, incorrectly;
Would a mind
Break free,
Accidentally; indeed,
Is there any other way.

And we are all hoping,
That our life
Will be the life it comes;
Our mouth
Shall be the mouth
To cup
The one;

We are all
Full; emptiness is an
Allusion to
Everything;
Nothing
Is the myth one dreams
To see—

And we are all
Moving,
To find the way
Out of
The dark.

Or so,
We ache to
Believe.

It is a sensing, like art.