There is no eternity,
as life has its limits.
Beyond can be fictional
or worse artificial.
There’s no guarantee
that tomorrow won’t be my last
or that I even get there.
The past left its bitter fingerprints
and behind elegant prints
is hiding a childish scrawl.
my memory nor cup nor a bowl
of watery images
floating around and haunting
It’s not news nor it’s new
mortality can offer only so much.
Thus, running circles
mulling over same problems
from multiple angles
and getting the same conclusions
that ancient Greece wrote treatises on
and still it goes on, and on, and on.
It’s boring, that’s what it is,
yet it’s not remiss nor goes out of style
says a lot about the flock, doesn’t it?