Fate comes, though we see it not
Time treads onward, however we dig in our heels
Vigilance toward one threat leads to negligence of another,
and the cruel limits of mortality aren't shy in their reminder
It is this ceaseless grasping at what can only slip through our fingers,
this continued effort at being or creating something which stands outside time that withers our hearts so.
Desire and expectation, racing to measure the borders of infinity, we rail at the sea as it inevitably washes away the intricate palaces of sand we covet –blind to those we share them with.
The first human wielding flame's warming light may have known grace and awe at flame wrought gifts, but grace and awe pass like fever dreams when deaths face looks upon a mortal mind.
For this is the true audience for which we act so fervently, this cosmic comedy of impotence.
The knowledge of an end turns the gift of consciousness collective, this 'we', into an insipid 'I'.
The fire's beauty dimmed, faces once held with love and kindness now gone dark, and all is combat.
Every 'other' an enemy, and rational objection sounds mutely,
throttled by the roar of the ephemeral.