We are neither of the past nor future –
the immense morning sky turning over
mountain and valley will never dawn
but teeter on the brink of imagination,
tinged by colors without substance.

No rooster will crow to herald
the end of time’s night —
no holy morning rituals, nor anything
that can be known will ever cross
that threshold.

We are form without form, the shape
that climbs out of nowhere, towers above
nothing, that which is neither present nor
absent, here nor there, asleep nor awake,
and no more visible than obscure.

Deep inside of things no meaning is found,
nor is there truly any in or out,
nor secret revelation that will grant some
prayed-for, hoped-for resolution
to the story we narrate.

How we appear will make little difference as
we push out from the dock on the boat
we call our life –
a ship whose chartered course is set to
sail out on the sea and rapturously sink.

The one who bids farewell from the shore will
welcome us home in the ocean’s deep –
we are that one from whom we run,
the same for whom we seek.


Robert O’Hearn