There is a song as old as time,
as fragmented as the sands of the sea,
expanding even unto the atomic structure,
breaching the event horizon that is existence.
In this song there is an underlying melody,
strewn with beats of adaptability and visceral beauty,
a haunting requiem,
strung sweetly against the firmament,
shrieking alone in unfathomable darkness,
a howl into the void.
or a stone skipping across membranes,
resonating frequencies playing in tandem,
and yet it is the same,
perhaps another rendition,
but the core remains,
the harmonic convergence,
that simple phrase that all men know,
that resistance against that which is futile,
and against forces unseen and immeasurable in scope,
a piece that illustrates the variability of divinity,
the conception of infinity,
the ethereal nature of human strength,
ringing true in the hearts of many,
and scars left smoldering in the hearts of artists,
a dirge to those of like mind,
a symphony of questions,
to which there are few answers,
throughout the expanse of time and space,
splattered with blood and dark matter,
songs will be sung,
books will be written,
and agents will align,
forever playing along in a round as eternal,
and as elusive as the questions,
yet to be posed.
A.P. Beckstead (2014)