Is uncertainty random?
The Condition of Being
The ideals are gone.
You do not know
what moves one foot
in front of another.
There is a gaping hole
right through you,
blood and guts are gone.
You try to tell them
it does not matter.
Still they use words
as sandbags to fill
that empty space you
are learning to call God.
Your crimes are ashes.
They do not matter.
The misdeeds of others are that too.
All the petty guilts and insults,
the old injuries and the new
are just passing,
are mere distractions.
Your mind is fluid,
following the waves of clouds,
crisp contours of mountains
against a vacant sky.
Action is all around you.
It does not matter.
You are circling the space
from which real movement is born.
This gaping emptiness
might be the beginning of something,
might be the beginning of something,
the very beginning.
