Sander Roscoe Wolff

by Sander Roscoe Wolff
12:00 AM 01-10-03

This day began like any other:
Woke up to the blade and lather,
Burned a stick, and drank a cup,
And drove me to my nine to fiver.

In this endless dance, I wondered
“Can I feel a deeper meaning?
Can I have an understanding
Far beyond these things I know?”

Still, the ritual continued,
Daily till the years drew closer,
Closer than the scent of lovers
Lingering on dampened pillows.

Closer, till the air around me
Did not fit my tired body.
Closer, so my skin cried out
For any kind of brief respite.

Then, I saw with eyes unbounded,
Past these passing moments spinning
Something I cannot describe
In words that pass as fragile flame.

In this moment, knowing only
That my life was spread before me,
Still, for once, no doubt or question.
Not an answer but this: _____.

Knowing, as I did, that instant
Spreading out to fill each void,
Echoes of my endless being
Endless in the briefest time.

Boundless, now, unbidden go.
Truth is not to seek, or know.
As above, it is below.

Now, this next day comes so quickly.
Do I rise to fall again?
Do I act to change these patterns
Or do I simply hold the course?

Do I act to change these patterns
Or do I simply hold my course?

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