snowflakes in the wind
never back here again
and time will lift us
higher than the sky
to soar, to die, goodbye
they're all fictions
these escapes
scraped together dictions
sustain us in the night
secretly fighting
shadowland
to live just once
upon the grassy plain
to strain against the
brightest yellow sun
ah life embodied
sweep me with your
starry eye
to soar, to die, goodbye
what you are given is not the Way
but it is your mother's or father's
a church, mosque, or synagogue's
a culture and an era
who in turn received it from another
there is no "way" but the Way
the philosopher was right to say
it cannot be named
but this is inconvenient
so we grasp our little "ways"
and perish never having
known it
except in briefly flashing
moments of illumination
