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WHAT IS IT THAT APPEARS TO BE?

 

 

Another day of unreality,

What appears, this now long beginning, how long?

Is my desire this road, continuing on or merely contemplating it?

Either sets me in a seemingly and frail world.

 

I find myself here in thought, lining up words,

Creating, it seems, something of them, of their own fragility.

They reflect my own unsteadiness, a sort of unraveling.

Rather an unrelated undoing accomplished prior to my presence.

 

Am I left to choose and to choose what?  Is it for me?

Others have come this way.  Perhaps all who love will take this road.

But the road has a non-existing quality.  Is it really there?

What, now left alone, on an apparent road where all merely appears to be?

 

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