On a piece of cold floor
we travel
as a splinter of thought rock,
colliding with others
leaving shards
of our own stories in them.
Alone,
in biological suits
that so often fail,
overcome by pain,
we breathe the same air,
and yet we long for something still
that we cannot touch.
This world flows through us.
We measure time
by asking how many minutes
we have
gluing together sequences
of scattered memories.
In dreams,
we build rockets
to set off
on another journey
through samsara.
We, small universes,
torn by black holes,
separated
by the thin membrane of “I.”
The farther we look,
the more we lose.
In our hands,
we hold cells,
and in them, further elements
and so without end.
I’ve written these words
so many times:
stairs,
light,
silence,
dark.
I repeat endlessly
like a broken record
On a lonely rock
Racing through this life
returning
to a certain unknown.