(#45) The End In Mind

There is this narrow path
On a large sheet of white paper.
The paper has an unknown dimension.
Drawings will appear on it.

Seventeen strokes for time
The path winds about the problems-
Eighteen walls, every mason builds
Two each, hard sand and stone, just to

Injure me when I pass between them.
One traveler, hundreds of exchanges
Two with the black market, the devil
Three with the friend's friend,

Both of which never I understood-
Though one clearly was intimidating
And the other, completely undirected.
My pockets are spent empty and in my collection,

All that is unsatisfactory. In fact,
Nobody knows why the paper exists
Nor who holds the pen sketching aimlessly on it.
We will just keep walking, drifting,

Creating thoughts to justify
The reasons for the useless journey,
Trying to use determinism as an excuse to
Scribble your name all over the floor you walk-

Like an analgesic, in hope that people will know the
Letters to carve on the tombstone when
You, the departed unknown individual
Perish from the inevitable disease of death.

I refuse to veil the truth
That we exist to expire.