Doesn’t matter
As a matter of fact—
Add her, sadder
Or gladder,
To the packed
Memories,
Endlessly,
As entries,
As seas sloshing
So plentifully,
Washing
As centuries,
As ash,
As eventually,
At last,
As the curvature
Of the atlas,
Circular in nature,
In nurture,
It invents us,
Hurtles us
‘round a star,
It pulls our
Senses here,
Near the sun,
Near the entrance of illusion—
Spun
Like a flat nickel
Can appear spherical—
That trick’ll expose
How it all goes
Around,
How it all falls
Down,
I suppose
If life grows
From the inanimate ground,
It also flows and
Follows our last
Hour glassed
Grain of sand
With the soul,
Sans sound
(cue the drum roll)
Love life,
Love its
Continuance—
Give into its
Intuit
Influence