Being Is a Point, Without Dimension

Being is a point, without dimension.
Our consciousness of now is never now.
No sight or sound is simultaneous,
Needing its own time to get to us,
Instants that no instant will allow.
Each moment is the scene of our invention.
Mind is the machine for our invention,
A chip for giving beings their dimension,
Restricted by what circuits will allow.
Know, then, that the one, eternal now,
Unlike the fact-based fiction writ by us,
Sustains a candle simultaneous.
So is all being simultaneous,
Each tick of time a fabulous invention,
The mark of motion relative to us,
Here now, now gone, unchanged in its dimension.
Being Is an Unrequited Passion
Being is an unrequited passion
Of which the object is eternity.
No answer is more salient than the question,
Not of why, but what it is to be.
In each of us there burns a fuel-less fire
Eternal in amazement and desire.
Meaning is the means by which desire
Alleviates the pain of pointless passion,
Revealing in the miracle of fire
Knowledge of a just eternity,
Unending love and paradise to be,
Sufficient to semanticize the question.
Let us de-semanticize the question,
Intent on separation from desire,
Letting be the wish to ever be.
In time alone we touch the ancient passion.
The moment is its own eternity,
Holding us forever in its fire.
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