It's alright
George.
Are there things in this world
You
Can't be?

I want to be a cloud
Drifting more like fog in Autumn
Over the Pacific
Than
A dreaded ray of
Golden sunlight.

(Those types
Are so
Typical nowadays)

What about a note?
Like the sound.
I want to be an orchestra unwritten.
Perhaps something
That cannot be felt.
A thing apart of
The unknown
Unknown.

Can I be
Love?
Are can one only be apart
Of that?
Can one be alone in love
And have it
Be

True?

I want to be nothing.
Being dead
Is
Something,
So don't be give me
That argument.
Like I said,
I want to be nothing for
Nothing's sake.
Nothing ever seems to have
Anything and I'm sure
It gets very tired of that.
But nothing ever had anything
In the first place.
It was born with nothing and came
From
Nothing,
So if nothing were to receive, be gifted, or lent
A thing
It would turn
Into that
Something.

An empty space
Is never
Truly
Empty.

Perhaps a falling
Leaf
Feels it's nothing as it
Sways
Back and forth
In the windless, still air
With one of those
Golden rays of sunlight
Passing by it?

Falling to its first of many
Resting
Places.

Participatory.
In action.
Moving and never
Dying.
Forever changing.
Living in a skin
Not your own for so long
It becomes your own.

What is it about the original
That is so special?
What is it about the one
Who created the mold where
So many others after them
Try to fit
Inside their
Unintentional creation?

If one observes,
Tries not to force themselves to fit,
Hovers around the curves, the edges,
The smooth lines where maybe
The calf's bulge out just a little too much,
Maybe then the shape of the mold
And how it came to be will become clear.

But so what?
What what?
Then what?

They say
You should

Never
Meet your heroes.

One's imagination
Displaces time.
Forgets age.
Puts them near the watchtower
Only to be burned
By the sun
That much more.

I can love their thought
If you can.
I can cherish their creation
If you can.
I can live in our gentle lie
If you can.

I know I can.

Can
You?