In Passing

It's attained unknowingly
that complacency,
solitude.
And it seems they're
in their passing
before they even
realize.
But I can see
it in their
eyes.
The distant focus.
Unaware of the
atrocities
that've come
with time.
They exist
in a realm beyond
our experience.
Remaining aloof,
unnerved by the
pervasive plagues.

And I know
I'll be there
one day.
And they'll ask,
"When did he
arrive?"
They'll wonder,
"How did he get
there?"

But the owl's
mystery
is it's existence.
And the moon
reveals
no more than
it should.

For time will proceed
regardless of
acknowledgment.
Though our scope
has trouble
with such notions.
We are the
itinerants,
the despised, the
one's we were
warned about.
We can't place
ourselves,
nor explicate
any relevance
to such passings.

For one never reaches
new lands,
without consenting to
lose sight of the shore
for a very long
time.
Each departure
an arrival.
Every loss
an acquisition.

We are always
in passing;
and steadfastly
we exist.