progress

There is an endless dripping
to the sea,
a soft pain.
The endeavor of a cockroach,
superfluous,
permanent.
The hair, dust, mold and rot.
Eternal antiquity,
untouchable foreign delight.
Engulfed only by progress,
a longing for purpose.
Here there is a structure,
to obey,
to possess,
to acquire.
Drunkenness to conquer,
ideas to develop,
people to love,
movements to succeed,
admiration to be sought,
days to pass.
Something to be done.
Reality smashed
against the a priori
- to exist.
And softly,
toward void,
your darkness sees only new.
Not light.
And yet here,
there are the brown eyes
and soft face
of unconditional being.
Asking nothing,
certain and not afraid.