It’s funny, the things we hate:
Desert and tundra, are opposite, yet the same.
The hand, the foot, the heart, the brain,
I’m suddenly more fearful of monotony than change.

For repetition is lifeless; to be dead as sin,
This rhythm is what wastes all the years in the skin.
But flesh is flesh, and cannot be undone,
When one story ends, another has begun.

So, if change is merely a cycle, of mountains and then troughs,
Then dark and light are closer,  than perhaps they truly ought.
But if juxtaposed means together, and similar, different,
Than I know but nothing, or perhaps I am illiterate.

All this to say, there is truth in opposition,
And please don’t disregard me,  I mean no contradiction.
I think whether to or fro, we can’t help but be tossed,
When the only thing consistent, is the very thing we’ve lost.