Loftily flowing through the air,
In the almost nonexistent breeze.
It wanders everywhere,
But is locked to one spot.

The imperfect immaculacy called life,
Flowing unrestrained through all things.
It flows with neither rhyme nor reason,
It flows without regard to the season.

From the tips of my wiry, weak fingers
To the roots of the solemnly stoic tree,
Standing proud, for many years to come.

From the lifelessly vibrant autumn leaf
To the ceaselessly soaring summer bird,
Brimming with an almost vexing vigor.

From the phenomenally frostbitten stream
To the swaying spectrum of vernal petals,
Berating the grass with their "benevolent" beauty.

As I have said before,
Life:
The imperfect immaculacy,
Chained to existence.