The Bedrock of Being

Existence stands,
a mountain unmoved by tides of thought,
impervious to the pull of origins,
needing no dawn, no whisper of before.
It is breath before lungs awaken,
the endless hum beneath all machinery,
the pulse preceding every heart.

Nothingness — a phantom notion,
a shadow trailing the living,
yet unable to breathe or be.
Even void demands a vessel
to cradle its emptiness.
To not exist requires a stage
where silence takes the lead.

If ever a first beat sounded,
a spark igniting the abyss,
it was kindled by hands
born of this eternal now,
this weight of presence
wearing the face of now,
and now, and now —

Energy cycles,
a ceaseless wheel of flame,
undiminished, ever turning,
a dance beyond decay,
as constant as light across a void
too full to hold nothing.

Thus we unveil a silent truth:
existence needs no herald,
no progenitor or cause
beyond its own relentless pulse.
It simply is —
the lone witness and the multitude,
the stage and the performance,
alpha and omega, forever
without end.