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.