My life is transitory in its limited continuity.
Nothing predicates the self
Other than its very own discontinuity.
I believe that I am who I am,
Devoid of permanency,
From one moment to the next,
I am.

I reside there, in the moment.
Spontaneity.
My best days follow my worst days,
Not by pattern,
Nor by fate,
But by the incalculable possibility
Of joy and sorrow
And lastly, by forgetfulness.

I fade into a lapse of memory,
With obscure vision
I imagine otherwise
A beauteous illusion is born

I judge and am judged
According to the illusion,
Born of hope for never-ending love.
Dreams of:
“No man is an island”
And
“Thy Will be done”
Betray the incalculable possibility
Of sorrow and joy.