Poesy: Self-Same Made

In Still Life

This is my still life,
On paper.

Where painters paint
A fleeting moment
In the life of fruit and flower;
Both of which are
Subsequent product of the same
One Tree,
I write my fleeted hours
From me.

Because no sudden
Oneness of a quick-dropped,
Dead-alive illusion
In an otherwise organic world
Shall ever say much more
Than I can say,
In this one thought.

Therefore,
I long for sleep;
For all the wait of
One entire moment
Lives in still life as
We close our eyes,
And dream.

—Self

• poetry
• poesy
• sleep
• dreaming
• illusion
• still life
• disillusion
• living
• dying