the universe broadens under the web of strain
the string, destiny draws through its dark heart
that maze, running through our very existence,
forever the enigma no human will ever understand–
in their mortal lifespans, is what the soul does.
it’s just as if the souls were but giant poppy plants,
they grow leaves they shed upon autumn
the bodies that rot and grow in the cycle of eternity.
foolish men. stop asking the world your questions
your rusty skin will wither and crumble one day.
ask your self, your soul and listen, you’ve been alive,
all this time.