A flower grows as it dies; bashed by age and time.
It is not a body that shows time’s grip; but the evidence left behind.
Time is but a faceless bird, dug deep into your back,
The claws aren’t real; the cuts aren’t deep, yet still a metaphorical attack.
And nothing is something, that something is nothing, confusing as it may be,
When nothing’s something which is still nothing, to you as it is to me.
Time is nothing, which makes it something, a thought to surely abhor,
And so it goes, in our little cosmic ewer, and so we begin to pour.
Hearts, souls, minds alike, made up by “you’s” and “me’s”,
humanity’s reasoning for all of this madness is “do with it as you please.”
We grow as we die, like the flower goes too, into eternal night,
a place without sorrow, happy or sad, a place beyond darkness or light.
You sit here reading this spun and wrought tale, absorbing each sharply placed word,
and my sincere solitary hope, to one and all, is that it makes you feel so spurred,
as it has done to me, shall it be done to you, this is one of my master plans,
to show you the nothing beyond light and dark, the place where the flower now stands.