Without Rhyme or Reason

My love is like a poem
That does not rhyme with the world at all
But full of sounds and signs
Signifies  the world et al.

Aesthetically thin is its body:
It has no sensuous taste or touch,
Odour or Colour or music as such.
It is a bare structure of itself
Unspontaneous, intransitive, indeterminate;
Suspended  between self and self.

My poem is like my love
That does not reason with the world at all.

Passion on the Cross

The ache of the flesh
Is physical,
But of the soul philosophical.

All are born with the former,
Only a few are blessed with the latter.

The ache of the flesh dies with death
But of the soul is eternal;
The one is of existence, existential;
The other is of essence, essential.

We make our cross with both;
The vertical
On the horizontal.

Passion on the cross alone
Is existential, congruent with essential. 

A Hypothesis

Future is a hypothesis
That takes a life-time to test;
An infinite series of possibilities
That death alone can lay to rest;

It alone can inaugurate 
Eternity of life and death;
A cycle of inexorable dualities;
To die, to be born again, and again to die,
Ineluctably .