what is our life?
Time streams trickle by, throwing
echoes of what’s to come
as they tickle my skin
Oh, my skin.
Icy lines plough across my carapace
and for all those scars I could not cry.
With each blink, each grasp
at the wispy blurry spray
as the torrent rushes on,
my heart falls behind -
What brave idiot would stop to breathe?
I am drowning in this sprint
and the salt of her is sweet.
In rushing current I was born and I will remain
until I am nothing more than a speck,
and then nothing again.
Heed me - I am nothing.
Clear azure, chirping birds, not unlike the
chattering herds of which I am a part.
Maybe better, for there is a melody to their art,
An order, where we fall
so far from perfection that we would come
to praise chaos
Rather than say what we are;
Heed me - we are nothing.