Youth

Youth sits bare in groundless
orange – hanging
in a swing knit from a blue
vociferous transparency.

Youth thinks that it is thinking
of a kiss when it is
actually contemplating
the abyss – confuses time

with timelessness –
doesn’t know it’s in Eternity –
doesn’t know it can’t attain
or gain a thing suspended

in this swing – and yet to swing
is destiny. Most strangely true
(to Youth, to you):
being is the only thing to do.


 
 
 
 
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