There can be no unknowing of this is
Since this is that that must be is.
Scavengers of is are we;
In dust and ash scrabbling to see
Which eye can pivot past the are
Of is, the planes of is, higher
Past the quarks promising bright to be’s,
Unaware our life, its short lease,
Cannot flower until the syntax has been stilled,
The mines separating was, will and is are killed.
Then, only then, will is be is,
And was feed is, and is be will;
Only then can we begin to bloom,
Far from our dead gods, their tall tombs
Shrined with aborted futilities.
Before us, there, the high walls of Troy loom.