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the embers of the old
will die away
and fading fast, washed away, by the
blazing light of a cold new dawning day
and all thats left is
the ash,
the ash of what once was.

And what is passed, is past,
and is then no more.
and nothing of it will last
even the memory will be like the invisible wind
felt, but forgotten. here, and gone.
leaving us with the sensation, of wondering
like looking at simple weathered stones
that once were headstones
and wondering who was buried there.

the past is a forgotten continent, the memory
of a myth, that lives in our imaginings of time,
and whence it is gone, the universe remembers it no more.
enigma, dust, and fantasy.
it has no belonging to the present, as if it never were,
perhaps never could be.

I am a stranger to myself.
And I a stranger to me.
And tomorrow I will be a stranger still,
to today, which like apocalypse, will cease, and I with it.

And all that we make, is all that we take,
is a time capsule, to preserve the absurdity of being.
How lonely must it be to be the universe, contemplating
itself forever, human lives like embers, through the eyes
of momentary living sparks. Nothing outside. Everything within.
As if an egg, a boltzmann egg, a cosmic monad. Maybe God, made us because he
was lonely. And on the letter, left at the doorstep. "A man from portnoy.
Address unknown. The nearest neighbor, the most distant office, the farthest temple.
With love. Yours always. All your Yesterdays and Tomorrow."