The Form of the Matter

08 March 2025

Are we at it again?
Always moving, progressing, becoming ourselves...
One way ends as another begins.
There are secrets within, and yet I
am without, on the fringes, where men
build their fortresses which soon turn to sand.
Who's to say whether this rubble matters
in the cavernous space of time,
whether we even matter, whether anything matters,
or what mattering even means? It has meant
both too much and too little. It means that
we have set for ourselves a goal, but we're fickle
and have had too many goals already. And yet,
what else can we do?
                                            But I say
we matter, because otherwise life becomes
too much like death, too unmoored
from the form of the matter, and this
is our greatest fear. Is there no other way
to explain the true wonders of life?