Natural History

What are the endless grains of sand,
without artistic ancient waters? Dark,
speechless reflections of a mystery,
never to be heard, never to be known.

A thousand flowers fill a valley’s floor,
Each telling other what they’re for:
the colors of their species
must be pleasing to the eyes.

Soon tiny wrinkles of Death hovering,
fearless music fading to a sigh:
the rhythm of their lives just
memories born forever next year.

Delicate deer roam the wood alone,
Each one nourishing the ancient home.
The chase and the dance of their kind,
grants momentary triumph.

For fear fills every second of a sound,
and beauty bristles on violent tone;
the hiding places just delaying
final execution.

A million souls enter the newborn one,
congregating into a life’s singularity:
soft heart defended by brave semblances,
paper stories written of the ego.

Life’s beginning’s end is always a prison,
as ancient lies are the waves of our blood
shaping the unhinged sand that is the ‘I’,
forever author of every history ever lied.

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