A little bit of enough

Sitting at a coffee shop on a poem-writing date, the thoughts pour out effortlessly.

At the prompt of a voice
this body turns;
What shambles, what grace
from the story tumbles?
Which beginning open sample
the end where we must converge?

Hear with eyes, hear,
On this ever-expanding story,
a primordial purgatory
for the ones that understand.
No principle shall remain,
no stones turned, none unturned,
no covets but all, no hardships,
no happiness; none, but yet —

On air as fuel, on lucids,
hopes and grief, joy, also pain;
what formidable consort: that apples
are born just because we crave.
What machine, in creating stupor
creates to cope with its fate,
what conclusion can be drawn
from that which lacks of an end?