It begins with the soil
the foundations already half dug,
preparing to receive.
As if it desires us to connect with it,
to join, to hold and to settle.
The building of the structure of life is an elaborate mirage:
It is rooted and limited,
we covet the unchanging...
observe, catch, consume, possess, grow, repeat...die.

I see it now as a passer-by,
its walls stained by its desire to remain,
it fights against the very nature to which it owes its life.
It endures, it tolerates, it expands,
but its size remains ever the same.
It too reaches for the heavens
and drinks from the waters to hold itself over.
Within, the rooms grow in number, in occupants and wishes.

Life has become a curatorship 
of the dreams of its inhabitants.
Dreams far larger than the rooms and its dreamers,
too large for the house to contain; 
so it opens its windows and allows them to drift out and up,
to those heavens with whom they so covet to commune.
Inside the soporists remain,
unknowingly seeking shelter 
while their dreams seek the sky.
Through their dreams
the universe dreams...vicariously.