Yet It Remains Glass
Life isn't a scattered piece.
It unfolds into trillions of unknown roads:
Some lead to light,
Some to dark,
Some to danger,
Some to heal.
They stretch endlessly.
The soul that once arrived,
Splinters into fragments.
The glass can be shattered or melted,
Cracked or polished,
Fused or cut,
Recycled or etched.
Yet it remains glass.
Some earn a name.
Some don't.
Yet all meet at the same place,
Where every arrival has always awaited its return.
Demise and emergence:
The funnel and source;
The one no one can ignore,
Still lingering to reclaim
The soul it once awakened.
All you earn,
Remains only as fragments of yesterday.
Roads remember your footsteps,
Until they fade into echoes no one hears.
Names become whispers no one remembers.
Yet the soul keeps chasing the unseen tomorrow,
The endless race,
Forgetting the waiting funnel of life,
That waits to end the journey,
That once began among millions
Of unknown roads.
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