We cannot hold,
neither here
or there,
like uncapped perfume
our sweetness will not stay
its bottle long.
Our essence exists
not within this too-easily
seen-through world,
this parlour,
glass fronted,
of small amusements.
An intangible likeness
to the wind which blows
is all our being here.
Time and its torments,
life and lust,
instill in us
both fear and hope,
and perpetuate
this restlessness,
this ever moving on.
The match, once struck,
must burn till gone,
life, like this,
consumes itself,
while the blowing of the end-of
time-like breeze,
enters everywhere
and everything.