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  by Mathew Cheung  

Tell me what messages
Can you get from a pseudointellectual
Who's devoid of spiritual
Interactions between the soul
And the rest of the body.
Thoughts which fly straight
Tangential to the perpindicular
Of the sides of a cube.

Thrown down a corkscrew tube
To end-up on the otherside;
On the darkside of Cloud-9
How long can this go on?
It's like this continuous song
That keeps going on, going on
It's like an echo, echo, echo...

Perpetual like time
As it spins its way along
My life and yours
And not to mention
The lives of those who go on
After our existence is gone.

Fragments of moments
Still pictures of our lives
To be lived, but not relived.
For when you go back
It is never the same
As when you left it
So long ago, so long ago.
Familiar faces and familiar places
Begin to come back into vision
Like reruns on television.

The mystery of existence
No neighbors for distances
In all possible directions
Places that we've never been before
Only visited in our mind's eye
In the limitless space of imagination
And beyond to where our sight and insight
Is tricked by the vast
Emptiness of absolutely nothing.