It could be a dream, all this wondering,
All these vaporous glimpses, A thin shroud of certainty
Enwrapping nothing.
Or it could be truth,
Something as trivial as truth.
We make symbols of everything,
An ordinary tree becomes life,
Which itself becomes an ancient torment
Of flesh-riven souls.
Even we are mere metaphor,
Encapsulated divinity,
A finger with no moon
To point to.
Know thyself, the oracle says,
But we are all in the box with
Schroedinger’s cat,
And die in the act of knowing.
This is the true meaning of Eve’s gift,
That god, condemned to live forever,
So jealously tries to wring from our souls.
exiles child 