To Never Having Lived

Found myself in a gray place, between black and white,
or, perhaps outside any colorful description.
A land where flowers bloom and bees buzz,
a land where people gather in one place or another,
a space of finite occurrences within infinite potentiality.

Perhaps a college town or a big city, farming events
as though they were blades of grass. A moment of time
with a soft breeze and a quick wit to seize the opportunity,
and then to let it blow away again.

Smoker’s paradise on the sail of the North Wind,
riding on til sunset proves an end of ends.
This place of life with mountainous background,
flat plains, palm trees, and a loud sound.

Seeking high above to look below, to help another up,
climbing the ladder from heaven and back to hell.
Sipping water to quench thirst’s sweet dry spell,
to look into the eyes of a passersby.

Planting seeds, one here, one there,
in a haze of uncertainty’s blissful share.
Pages turn from youth to old age as a pen moves
from stage to stage, implanting folly as well as jolly.

A bow catches this attention, tied in a knot so beautiful,
so perfect, bringing me towards emotional ecstasy,
craving for bodily connection in a land of mental indeterminacy.
Salivating towards youthful lust,
and wondering about eternity’s rust.

Each puff on this white stick brings one closer to the end,
but if one stops puffing, the candlelight goes out before the climax.
A sip on the edge of a gambler’s blunder
to take the edge off of this fearful thunder.

To the end of days I wish you well,
but for the time being let us pray for the wayward.
A search for oneself in this existential crisis,
of never having lived, til I give my life up.