Waiting in the wings
The moon is a disc, not a sphere.
Flat as the earth; the sea
pasted onto the bottom of the sky;
stars poking through a threadbare canvas.
I've turned away from the latest backdrop,
heading toward the interior.
It's all to be pulled down anyway
at the performance's end.
We flow through time apparently
but, also, time flows through us,
life delivered daily to our doorstep.
How could I ever cease to exist?
If I cease, existence ceases, the void
once more reigns and even then ...
I'll be waiting in the wings.
The scenery incessantly changes but, still
I stride the stage, emoting, aggrandizing,
gesticulating, playing it to the hilt.
O child of God, follow the script.
The pageant is endless; without resolution.