essay: #052 Possibility of an Island


We build our monuments tall.
All masculine.
All erect.
Up, out of the ground.
To the heavens above.
Stairways to a better place.
Some believe.

The arrogance of it all.


My baby holds the ashes of a dear friend, in his hands.
"It has bone in it ,,," he says.
I want to hold him close.
So I do.


How long does it take a body to burn?
Disintegrate into ashes.
To be scattered on the four winds.
Back from where it came.

Will it seem fleeting, in the end?
Life presented as a car-crash of memory.
Of images.
Of body.
Of words.

Possibility of an Island.
Within each and every one of us.
Potential, to leave our mark.
Potential to check-out, way before our time.
Potential to color all that we touch.

# transmission ends #

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