I recall a theory that says
time stops at the surface of a Black Hole
as light falls into it.
I can believe it as I watch the stars disappear on the lake.
The silence sits in a theory of its own.
An ambiguous and amorphous appendage
of hollow-eyed indifference.
I know the bolted bones of the body will break down.
The vessel that chills the soul
will embrace the shadowed curve of the horizon.
A concentrated consumption of time
begins drifting in the void of the past.
Bodily impairment is also mental.
The construct of human components
are bloody and nervously connected.
The body’s condensation often released in sobs.
(How deep is the skin of feeling?
How hard is the bone of knowing?)
Our culture has a profound influence
on how we interpret the meaning of what we are.
Our complex composition is determined by the system
in which we find ourselves struggling.
We make vain attempts to resolve
the conundrum of one’s self
without deceiving one’s self.
We realize with age that awareness is not always an ally
and wisdom has authority over nothing.
Not even the sorrow that its knowledge of things bring forth.
But knowing the etiquette of morals
is imperative to the wellbeing of humanity
we try to satisfy a personal obligation
to the benefit of the common good.
Someday our essence will alter into something
perhaps unrecognizable to what we are now.
A heterogeneous mass of elements
dispersing its atoms to another origin
which will seek its own place in the cosmos.
The molecules that bonded us
will attach themselves to another incipient entity
which with silent evolutions and modulations
continue along the circle of the circle.