Why hath man no capacity for peace
The stillwater of quiet ennui
Wasting away under the calm wind
Dreaming of unrest
Wishing for a storm under a clear sky
Full of stars

Why hath man so much capacity for suffering
Except when faced with the thought of it
Then it’s a gluttony of sweetness until
A renewed longing for hunger
Unexpressed for fear of
Absurdity

A garden is built, with constant amends
Chasing a never-changing perfection
Till no flower is to be touched
By thieves, children, bees, all likewise
Till it all withers away
To ash and dust
Truly, a visage of all the same
Grey, and indifferent to the sun

A ruin now a sight of comforting pleasure
Its ruddy rust a wizened smile of experience
Its scars now revered by flesh and soul
By winds, children, moss, and ivy, all likewise
The stones that still stand when all else fall
Will always be more loved than unharmed edifice

So
Why do we still fear any fall
That when it rises
Will have the momentum to rise
Above itself,
And perhaps even above all.