William Michaelian

Poems, Notes, and Drawings

As the Crow Flies

I cannot even say, with certainty, It is what it is. Does it really exist? Do I? Is the existence of one dependent upon the other, and vice-versa? Do you and I exist, if we do, because of each other, and perhaps even for each other? Are our lives a dream? Are we living now, or then, or some other when? Are we dead? Are we in the womb unborn? Are we a smile, a wink of an eye, a fleeting impression, a puzzled scratch on the head, a nervous twitch, a belch, a grimace, the last snowfall, a print on the glass, a moment’s desire, a fading memory? How lovely the mystery, how sweet the doubt — how poignant, how odd, to be a hopeful believer, a predictable consumer, a dutiful buyer of insurance, worried what others might think, afraid of winning, afraid of losing, afraid of living, afraid of dying, seeking comfort, seeking wealth, seeking control, seeking beauty, seeking calm, being the one, not being the one, being someone, being anyone, being no one, being educated, being ignorant, being humble, being proud, taking, giving, sacrificing, all in an instant, bathed in tears, summed up in laughter — imprisoned, crucified, martyred, hung — shot from a bow into an endless expanse, caught on the run, written upon by love, lost, found, released, held . . .

November 28, 2020

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Categories: New Poems & Pieces

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