what does our existence truly mean
from the first blink to the final breath
if those who were before us then
are now under our very feet?
a wound that does not bleed
or a single blade mishandled -
in between life and death:
we are always in the middle
days are quick to come
nights are slow to pass
in this moment to and from
nothing would ever last
but one ought to learn in time
from all the journeys one could go
that it is not only sunshine
that makes the flowers grow
born without a dream
or made for a purpose
in one way all the same -
as it is fate which discloses
a man's wisdom to hail
is to have known this within:
he could will the sail
but never the wind
YOU ARE READING
A Diary
PoetrySee how the world could be sketched into words and how poetry could find a missing soul.
