Scattered Thoughtlessly
by Travis MacMillan
 

Within a November wind, broken ghosts drift,
making their way through an endless sea of pines,
bowing to the inevitable ceasing of life.

Seeking for
yet never reclaiming
names that are now long forgotten.

(The self washes away after countless seasons have danced around the sun.  Corporality is but a fading dream upon waking to death.)

Formless,
free of purpose,
the last trickles of smoke escape a dying stick of incense
as a lonely temple bell knells,
breaking the stillness of the night air,
echoing the impermanence of all things.

Broken ghost drift through August shafts of light.
Falling gently unto restless blades of grass,
bowing to the transience of the floating world.

Searching for
Yet never finding
words that will impart something.
Something that will last after the sun burns out
and death is no longer able to offer its remains to an uncaring wind
to scatter thoughtlessly…