Travelers

All of us are travelers
no stillness yet exists
the planet constantly revolves
the star cannot desist
its vertiginous traverse
round a dense singularity
in a nausea of mist
of the bloating universe

No stillness yet exists
for the abject self alone
never abiding in the same place
within the galaxy's cyclone
No attachment may persist
in the emptiness of space
yet the animacy is illusory
since it all is but nothing but
the dream in the dream in the dream
ad nauseam et infinitum
a compromised reality
of that which it is not.

God's just a word for optimism
about what can't be known,
beyond the faceless prison
of the universe we're shown.

We pledge a marriage to our faith,
then dally with our doubt;
yet neither slut nor holy wraith
can serve to get us out.

So know it is foolish to stake a claim,
as we're all bound to rot;
reflect that we are all the same,
and hope is all we've got.