Been down this road before Seems to extend itself with each step made upon its hide If there is such a thing as completion it cannot be found
The infant and the dying sharing a seamless breath Not a single day has passed With me wanting to get off these tracks It is not a place of congregation; mute communion We might have passed along the clouds Without the recognition of two desolates
Illumination seemed less intimate than he had hoped for
The winds blow with no molecular embodiment Yet they're cold to me, old to me Solitude becomes a trusted party out here In the deserts of self Yet we do not ask for anything