The Stranger of Maya

You are to me nothing but a—moment.
Sometimes of unbearable joy,
sometimes of cruel anguish.
Sometimes sharper than feeling itself,
sometimes silent as prayer.
Sometimes firmer than resolve,
sometimes clear as touch.
Sometimes fragile as disbelief,
sometimes aching like a breathless dream.
Sometimes the terrible sickness of fragrance,
sometimes the tune of longing
that plays at memory's burial.
Sometimes the scattered illusion
across these eyes growing dim—
a stranger groping in the dark.
Sometimes the last refuge of fallen tears.