It's there, but I can't see
It straight-on, rather feel
It, peripherally, avoiding me
As if to remain unreal
And unconfirmed, resembling
The hint of a shadow gone 'round
The corner, the air still trembling,
From where it ran, without a sound,
Before I could get there,
Hoping to catch, and hold it close
To my heart -- And I swear
I won't get nauseous or morose,
No, I'll be relieved, relaxed, jocose...
It's the Leprechaun of living-on,
It's the Imp of knowing my existence,
Which I cannot help but chase,
In response to an insistence,
That there has to be a trace
Of meaning and adventure
In the neutral comfy-cozy place
That is my life, sans-vesture...
Predictable, repetitive, the hours and days extend,
And the slippery Imp is disinclined
To show the Rainbow's End,
So, I keep on trucking, growing old, no pot-of-gold,
Yet strive to buy what can't be sold,
A grim-faced hiker on the karmic wold.
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