This poem has no name

This poem has only one name.
The poem could tell us its name,
But we are strangers asking inappropriate questions.
We wrote this poem tonight,
And comprehension dawns nonetheless.

Ice and fire collide in ways that we cannot comprehend.
A conflagration of birth and death,
Simultaneously reaped and sown.
We do not see any growth, and yet the cycle continues on repeat.

A man rises breathing from the steam,
In and out, in and out.
His breath is the steam,
And from his rotting carcass someone will create the stars.
He does not need to die first.

The corpse exhales,
For Death is the jester,
And the jester is a woman.
Ha ha.
Why does that matter?
She has jokes, though they may not be funny.
They may not be anything.

We aren’t anything.
We let our brains control us and nothing comes of that.
Reason is up and meaning is down.
Nietzsche laughs but we do not hear him.
A tree surrounded in a forest fell,
And we cradle its trunk as it shatters into pieces.
It makes no sound and yet it says everything.
And we cradle its trunk as it shatters into pieces.
A tree surrounded in a forest fell.
Nietzsche laughs but we do not hear him.
Reason is up and meaning is down.
We let our brains control us and nothing comes of that.
We aren’t anything.

They may not be anything.
She has jokes, though they may not be funny.
Why does that matter?
Ha ha.
And the jester is a woman,
For Death is the jester.
The corpse exhales.

He does not need to die first,
And from his rotting carcass someone will create the stars.
His breath is the steam,
In and out, in and out.
A man rises breathing from the steam.

We do not see growth, and yet the cycle continues on repeat.
Simultaneously reaped and sown,
A conflagration of birth and death.
Ice and fire collide in ways that we cannot comprehend,

And comprehension dawns nonetheless.
We wrote this poem tonight,
But we are strangers asking inappropriate questions.
The poem could tell us its name.
This poem has only one name.
The poem could tell us its name.