'..Sing To Me, Sing To Me When That Fat Old Sun In The Sky Is Falling..' Poem by Brian Mattern

We call a lifetime's worth of yearning, obsession.
But who can see beyond a lifetime,
enough to say it isn't eternal love?
The moth will follow a flame into battle,
it's attention no longer consumed by impermanence.
A reptile filled swamp, licking their lips,
and the moth won't even flinch.
For the warm light that awaits the end of the mucky water,
will seemingly shine inside that flutter-by, regardless
of whether or not it reaches it's destination alive.
Nature knows this funny thing,
that men try to layer with reason.
At least until, you and I, find, that well,
that all is possible, when no thing is defined,
and that the end justifies life with meaning.