Snowflake flashing amidst the darkness
as white from black, a startling starkness,
a speck catching light within the void,
twirling, lifting, drifting, downward, buoyed
and returning to vast darkness yet;
a white moth fluttering in vignette
without a cry, a voice, nor a yelp,
fleeting, countless, and hopeless of help.
of a belief system
is not unlike an otherwise good man
playing William Tell
as his son trembles and flinches
and the erratic arrowhead flies
while feathered with what is presumed to be
an angel’s quill;
the forbidden fruit of knowledge
rolling off his head
and falling to the ancient earth,
slaked once again
by the blood of innocence.
The Theseus Ship Paradox
Always on the lookout for new lands
while adrift on the exotic seas,
running aground shifting island sands
to beach upon new discoveries.
Seven years may seem so very long
when charted afore the christening
with the winds and currents flowing strong
and a hale crew keen on listening,
but by such stars in aft retrospect
it is rather short and fleeting brief,
though grateful for not having shipwrecked
on a Siren-haunted coral reef.
Yet, wear-and-tear ages ships as well
as they drift along with wave and wind,
weathering both tsunami and gale
while navigating toward World’s End.
Thus, to starboard, larboard, stern and prow,
the old timbers are replaced in time,
and nonetheless afloat somehow
in Protean storms as the waves climb.
Death and rebirth, this seven-year course
with figureheads at prow and at stern
whose Janus visage changes and morphs,
yet true to the blueprint— the pattern.