the same kind of rainclouds
roll in from the springtime horizon, to spread life,
here, where you are reading this poem
and there, most every other place on this globe
imagine that: we all live under the same kind of sky

the wise man was asked:
“do we, as men, follow your words and reach nirvana?”
“but for the raw material, this would be so”, was his reply


there is a ghost hovering above me at all times
youth kept him at bay; old age increases his presence
he hangs like a jellyfish alight in the air
wide eyes dark spaces mystery
a span of some sort