The point (poem)

Each moment undresses itself, most always in different ways as if we, as the voyeurs of audience, come with different unique perspectives to play in our diverse minds. Each moment inadvertently reveals, through its self-conscious fumbling with curious timidity and foreign first person self sense, the eventual yet deducible truth that each moment is the same moment but, not again. It is anew as the same, in essence, it is the same, yet while in process, wildly no . . . apparently not the same. A thousand moments of refined viewing and a faint of sameness may flash or blush. Ten thousand moments of committed intent and the same emerges as a philosophic birth, easily dismissible by a simple blah blah blah response. A way of life as observation, lives that moment yet undisclosed. Belief, as stature, as substance, has come and gone. This commitment seems arthritic to view though deeply efficient yet not herald. Each moment has taken over but unexpectedly, it was the in-depth observation that should have triumphed. The wardrobe of awareness, strolling the sensory boulevard, is basking in the tell-all syndrome of self reflection but no, this is not really gated properly for the purposes of entry. It just is . . . moment upon moment. Like a foot placed upon the surface of the lake of life, then with one foot after the other, as if the mystery was hidden in a standing wave buried beneath that surface, the weight bearing of awareness with each step forward in time, is more deeply immersed, for by this means, an entry is gained below the surface of our generalized experience. No . . . this cannot be. Shattered by the rippling, going out onto surface details, observable as results, yet still stupefied by the appearances of self as pace and gait and ramble, meeting with wetness, liquidity, and immersion is an underworld awaiting and yet there is so much more . . . Each moment, as the point, with some much depth behind the flatness as quantum in disguise. Each moment is . . . as every is . . . in time.