I begin a poem
I begin a poem;
a poem of ageless, deathless forever.
Where do I begin it, without age, without death, without time?
The aging question:
Where will I be when I am gone?
"The argument is circular!" screams the logician, teacher. "You are wasting time."
The aging child is left with a vision of endless circling, feeding on waste, a volley of thought resembling carrion-birds that circle to relish the smell of decay.
If we had said, "You are yourself and no one else, as you always are and will always be" such vulturous thought would have little for feed.
But, we'd tried that twice before and were made foolish by our indiscretions.
Ours is the ever-circling, the forever circling, an unfinished poem.