Photo by Hannah Sheffield, licensed CC
There is irony in the comfort that comes with transience.
That your life will be but a passing whisper in the wind
And you may be heard,
Forever disappear into the distance,
Never to be thought of again.
Perhaps it’s the process that should be sweeping us away
The freedom of flying nowhere in particular
Of coexisting butterfly effects rendering control
But a masterpiece continues to be created in the collective chaos
That is cause, and effect
Demand, and supply
The ever evolving equilibrium that intersects
Making one ponder…
Maybe, there is a method to the madness.
Maybe, there is substance to the sadness
Maybe, there is a purpose to the pitfalls which lends itself to embracing that which is
And then blows another gush of wind
And it is gone
Inaudible whispers echo
Slowly diminishing amidst the seemingly, permanent stone.