reviewing one's place in the whole scheme of things
Something I’ve come to understand,
This truth, it eclipses the dark.
As time marches on and drags us behind,
The blood from our heels, that’s our mark.
But that’s not the purest crystal.
And that doesn’t really matter.
It’s akin to changing the color of wind.
Then we focus on leaves as they scatter.
Death lingers as an old familiar friend.
She mirrors how inconsequential and rough.
I’ve no walls to finish or floors to destroy.
My existence, that’s been more than enough.