Anonymous’s Crossing
They have nowhere to go, nor anywhere to come from,
Only drifting through the light, like fragments, carried by the wind.
Some call it a crossing,
But perhaps it is merely a trace of time’s distortion,
And those who stand upon it
Leave no trace.
They tried to build themselves with words,
But with every syllable,
Their existence slowly peeled away,
And in the end, they fell silent.
It wasn’t for concealment,
But to cease being defined.
Occasionally, a ferry arrives,
No oars, no wind, no destination,
Only emptiness, drifting through time,
Quietly taking “existence” away.
They cast their words into the water, it makes no sound,
But begins to glow, like a forgotten fire.
There is no exchange here, no transaction,
As long as you are willing to lose yourself,
Then you can receive
A ticket to pass.
You need not say who you are,
Only need say that you are no longer you.
Here,
Identity is skin that fades away,
Thoughts are unfinished sentences, and the body
Is just a momentary error at some coordinate.
The crossing has no shore, no end,
Only the ferry’s perpetual hesitation.