there's nothing but the traces of your person
of hands and feet that barely made it through
and sitting in your solitary sameness
you can't be bothered any less to move

the circles in the sun become your fingers
but rays of light they cannot be contained
to see the sky and all of its arrangements
you mustn't ever fight the pouring rain

the wind is only present if you feel it
it changes every shallow thread of flesh
you know it isn't over for a reason
the purpose for your life has never left