eight::thirteen

Nothing, not a thing.
I can't keep anything to myself.
But I still take.
We all take, we all think we have.

Oh, but to consider the one without,
the stranger, the widow, the orphan,
the ones without our law and order,
our silly daily way of life,
our heaps of shit
corralled between walls and under roofs
how could we ever have the time.
Time we can't hold,
and others simply must be good
for us at the right time
else they are nothing,
or only a thing,
an object, a tool,
or merely useless,
and what use is there for useless things?

And why should I bother devoting lines
to nothing that can't do anything for me?

But, see, I am dying
and the new life I'm rising towards
melts into a life that existed before me,
the me that doesn't quite exist
in a way we can comprehend,
for it is a we that only makes sense with us,
and not us and them,
for us is them,
thought we may be a bit different, too.

And this is OK.

This is the way.

This is the world of nothing, no thing,
where all is some of one,
though we don't count or govern.

Oh, God, I can't quite breathe well now
knowing there is better air to be breathed.

(Deuteronomy 10:12-22, Psalm 147, Matthew 17:22-27)