Is it really all that absurd,
to only want, then, to be heard,
to have my words finally read,
both before and after I am dead?
While I again seek to just find
life\'s hidden fruit within the rind,
the answer to all her mystery,
without any need of a Bodhi tree.
For meaning\'s silence does echo,
never sharing all that it does know,
all that it selfishly hides,
never predictable as the tides.
So, I roll every rock up every hill,
in an eternal tournament of will,
where I cannot win, cannot lose,
no matter which stone I then choose.
Knowing there is little I can do,
except listen to dear old Camus,
with just one promise to then keep,
as I take one more existential leap.