No one sets out that sets out to be this, when 
this 
is without anything.

I have dreams that travel 
dreams that unravel the timbre 
of time.

A full stop,
but I drop all pretension and
only mention this is as it is.

The fragrance always betrays me
when the desire arises within me,
we are the senses 
if senses can
sense the end to a beginning.

Was it in the loss or in
the winning that 
made being cynical the night watchman at the last 
innings?

and who was it being
bowled and caught?

A file in a life full of files flies away.

I collide with each day that gets in my way
moving over for no one 
on track for the big one 
in time

and

in a time when time becomes clear to me 
in the density and thoughts of eternity 
where I collide again and again infinitely 
I move over.