Dead nonmatter (#285)
Jonathan Frech
Is seeing living but a ploy of mind?
Homogeneity’s attractive lure?
A proof between all beings of one kind,
shutting the door to wicked truths; fait sûr.
A bit’s nigh nothing: can’t breathe, can’t be, can’t.
Though huddling is their keen forge of jesters.
United by a vivid, voiceless chant;
unconstrained by time, certain to best us.
Sweet the scent of already having met,
cold states are gifted kindly a free pass.
Lost in their glamour, it is mine to fret
deeply felt ambiguities too crass.
Fusing nothingness with emptiness with ∅,
sparringly portraying themselves as kith.
