vacuum sucking up the world,
sucking up its own time,
a hum of accumulation
always hungry for
more earthy trivial bits
and cosmic flutter and flux.
The body is action incarnate,
visible what-was --
born, ate, felt, held, done,
a past tense unit
driven in present tense
taking you its passenger
where you want and don't want to go.
The body is persistent hope,
a fleshy goad of fake eternity
second guessing time,
planning to live for ever.
To grow old and die in your sleep
is considered lucky.
Empowered for good or bad,
precious, vulnerable, afraid --
what could be left at the end
but the thing you thought you were?