To live forever, our selves desire.
Yet, mortality is illusion,
per the Masters,
as are all such objects -
the one true deficiency
being the blot of our desiring self,
its erasure all we lack
in the quest from nowhere to nowhere,
our timeless, motionless passage
an entertainment, a false relief
from God's idle, eternal limbo;
a brief distraction
during a rainy day, shut-in afternoon.
O child of God, whimsicality and pretense
run the gamut of all existence.