Beautiful Ruin
Times come when my voice
to me is a broken record,
disconnected wind with pattern.
That's how I remember
to see past my constructions.
Dust, fire and electricity
is what I'm made of,
a bend in the scratch of a millisecond.
No choice
but to ride the spit
on the crest of a wave,
somewhere in eternal somewhere.
Be brave!
We all are melting
into oblivion,
ants marching,
kicking up dust.
Maybe this world is alive,
and us, parasites
that can't see beyond it.
Is there really a distinction
between today and yesterday?
It matters not,
the tale is all-encompassing.
What other choice,
but to find beauty in ruin.
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