on the opal road to nowhere,
before the waters of Eden
gave birth to formality
and mistaken identities,
mystifying our memory
with the method of the veil,
lent on hand to cover, commonly,
our imperfections, alluring us
to stare at the moon for lunacy,
and watch as the sun burns to rise
from orange to silver casting,
blazed into white hot
then setting into red,
exploding,
a thousand sunless stars,
on fire with the night’s desire,
so aware of what we were given:

that is how I sometimes feel,
when I am a living being.