The Book of Eternal Life
by Thomas Dean Kellogg

Life is not what it pretends to be
but rather what it is,
in every breath and shock and shudder,
in every pain and birth and other living notion
that may say what it may say
or have its way
through voice or hand or foot,
trampling or toe tipping along,
rambling or singing a song
of love or hope or selfish need,
of life or some heroic deed,
diminished only by the death
we douse upon ourselves,
the breath we choose to waste,
in haste toward some uncertain then,
the certain now disturbed,
disturbed but never ending,
eternity forever bending,
never breaking through
the wall or mist, or veil,
A clarity resounds,
it is the sound of time without beginning,
a beating universal rhythm
pounding in the chest,
a heartbeat without rest,
and all the rest responding,
echoing and rumbling, booming,
bellowing, and clanging, roaring,
whispering, and mumbling, hissing,
murmuring, and breathing, sighing
what we cannot see exists,
consists of what we want to know or fear,
so near, or not within our reach,
extending, past and present
teach us what will be,
below the surface
rising sunshine in our eyes,
reflecting hope rings endlessly.
Eternity does not begin
nor ever end
of life it is the same.


 

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