Existentialism
I cannot halt
the beaming of
sun rays,
nor quiet
the whisper of winds.
I cannot change
the rising of moon tides,
nor alter
the dance of time.
Am I not simply
these blooded bones?
Red life?
The streaming
of heat
through an icy shell?
Yet,
this cell-filled skin
burns, afire
with living ghosts
infusing me with
the essence of
belief-
hope
desire
passion
fear
Tongues plastered
plastered in dew drops
of sensation.
Flesh,
bred for yearning.
Do our ears not listen?
Do our eyes not watch?
Do lips not speak?
Is all of this
the I
that I am?
Lips, eyes, ears, tongue-
all clamoring for presence
within the red stream of life.
What of the heart?
It beats
in time with the haunted
presence within,
transforming one phantom
into another.
Hope to dream,
desire to pleasure,
passion to drive,
and fear to hope once more.
Are we nothing more
than a cycle of ghosts
and clamoring parts?
Or, are we
the ghosts within,
forcing balance
with the beating
of blooded hearts?
