“A reoccurring mist…”

All we have is now;

death seems foul,

as it is far away…

No need to prowl;

your search begins,

and ends here:

The present.

It leaves.

It comes.

While it is moving, away from us it runs.

It blows with a shot like a gun…

Fast and fleeting!

Flowing and disappears as it is slowly steaming.

Like mist in July!

To come back like a boomerang.

Thirsting for more of now, with your lips dry!

Like water, to whom it is drained…

Our consciousness makes sense of now.

Because all that we truly have is now.