• To be but a dust ball floating upon the wind,
    Is an unfulfilling fate.
    A sort of haze through which little is known,
    Only scraps of light touching flesh-
    Breaths of humanity.
    Then fluttering out of reach,
    Floating on another current,
    Forever continuing, forever changing.
    Yet things are left behind-
    Moments, feelings, sensations.

    Sequential time passes,
    But cycles are far more distinct-
    Tangible in ways existence could never be.
    Rusts and gold colouring the canvas,
    Burning into frigid white frosts,
    Exploding into dazzling florals,
    Splashing into vivid blues.
    Forever continuing, forever changing.
    No more than a memory of times past-
    Times of mercy, of joy, of hope.