No Moment past This One

I tell you, it seems to be always out there.

Is it like a blanket? No, it is nothing

like a blanket. Is it like darkness?

No, neither is it like darkness. But it

doesn't act like something within me.

How do I know this? Because it seems

to be waiting. And it seems to have both

hunger and humor. And it seems both

patient and eager, ponderous and weightless.

And it is large. And it grows larger. How

can it not be like darkness when it devours

the light? How can it not be like a blanket

when it seems so all-enveloping? How

can it seem like a place to tumble into

and yet be so tireless, so agile? Yet if I

could answer such riddles, then perhaps,

perhaps, but when it comes it wraps me

in soft ropes, and it draws the life from me

and yet I continue to breathe, although

there seems no moment past this one

and this one, and the days continue to pass.

You see, it must come from the outside,

some cold place or from deep in the earth,

because if the beast dwelt within me, then

how could I live, how could it be withstood?