hiding in the next moment
slinking silently steadily
into the future never out of reach
just around the corner of each breath
a phantasm waiting for the sun
that never rises
never dropping its mask
until it all stops
and then revealed
ends all endings
melts back into the background
Hamlet contemplates the skull
until he can hold it no longer
even the thought of being or not being gone
the memories, synapses lapse
as the space between neurons
expands infinitely
unreachable now just part
of the dark matter
that ebbs and flows
in the breaths of the universe
nothing achieved everything attempted
how many conjured
heavens have been written into books
read in tea leaves and bones
chiseled into tablets
told to children
that when encountered
in a dark corner
or in the bright glare
of a hospital room
or any other door marked exit
or a walk in the park
birdsong leaves rustle breeze
become the nothingness
that which we have so
much of?