Swirling of flow in the river of life.
This section of river specially rife.
Swirl that I am and swirl I will be.
The swirl’s not real, that I can see.
Water is water, it runs as it will.
To be water once and be water still.
But what is water and why should I care.
To think about thoughts and how I’m aware.
The stories I tell of how it gets tossed.
Myself as it was but never is lost.
It is but a tale, it doesn’t exist.
This thing I call self ‘pon which I subsist.
The feeling feels real, caught here within.
Forgetting the truth, that was the sin.
The father, the son, the holy ghost.
There’s peace to be, thus lee-diagnosed.
Piece of a riddle the slice of a pie.
The sliver of life that passes me by.
It’s all me and my and you, they and we.
Eternally locked yet still somehow free.
Freedom to roam, the freedom to bind.
Freedom to make such fictions of mind.
Dying is life and living is death.
A loss and a gain with every breath.
Whole and the none, the sum and the part.
Where does it end, and when did it start?
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