Worthless, worthless, says the preacher
Self-important, self-taught teacher

Worthless, worthless, says the buyer
Yet your price was never higher

You get it cheap, and start to boast
And then leave nothing for the host

But emperors are like their clothes
Their what and whether no-one knows

You take their treasure in your hand
And feel your fist is full of sand

You search for some security
See things become, but never be

Why seek to run a perfect race,
If past the sun is only space?

Would you rather face the end?
Or live to chase the wind?

As soon as
Anything arrives –
Like mist at dawn –
It flees and flies…

          Some say, “Look,
          He’s so alive!”
          But, I say, “Look,
          He slowly dies!”

As soon as
Anything arrives –
Like mist at dawn –
It flees and flies…

          To whom will
          Work and toil call?
          All men who stand
          Are sure to fall.

As soon as
Anything arrives –
Like mist at dawn –
It flees and flies…

          If all comes from,
          And goes to, “Naught,” –
          Then what of those
          “Good” things we sought?

As soon as
Anything arrives –
Like mist at dawn –
It flees and flies…

          There must be More!
          There must be Life!
          Because, if not,
          It’s only strife…

As soon as
Anything arrives –
Like mist at dawn –
It flees and flies…

.

-Ecclesiastes 1:2-11

That which is said to come already is
And was, and so will be again – the sun
Will rise tomorrow, perhaps not upon me
But still the sun will rise again tomorrow

And warm the waters in a little stream
That laughing play with fallen autumn leaves
And all of them swim past a rotting pier
Where little boys with their cane poles once fished

The river currents flow, and so do we
To find our sunlit dreams upon that sea

Did not God want to be cherished
to cultivate and co-create
but instead we consume
like beautiful glowing fire
and maybe the ashes will make something
but dust to dust we are

maybe to burn is to live
like stars can fuel planets
is it distant passion or suffering
at least brief life flickers warm

time alone seems so expansive and cold
and eternity, as a dark vacuum that no fire can touch
is it better to suffer and live
or do you envy the crushing quiet of nonexistence

a speck of dust on a clover can't see where it's blowing
but somehow red light tells us that distance is growing

if human is dust
are we not a literal residue of some combustion
were then the Universe and God having tea together and laughing about us
And when people talk about them fighting
Are the two mistaken for each other?

There are nights of neon,
where the pavement cries,
the windows cast shadows,
the city runs purposeless.

These nights, I am in space,

and midair on the moon, I stare back
into this glowing orb of blue and green.
Amidst endless black, I imagine it burning,
the most bizarre thing I have ever seen,
and I ask, for what? Like they say of life,

all a striving after the wind.

Ecclesiastes 3:1-8
My version of life ... how I see it.
To everything there is a season,
And a time to dance a time to sing
A time to go the carnival, a time to wave your flag
a time to go to church, a time to kneel down and pray
A time to walked, a time to go jogging through the woods
a time to buy airline ticket, a time to fly away
a time to cast your vote, a time to revoked your vote
a time to make love, a time to relax and take it easy
a time to dream big, a time to follow up on those plans
A time to trend, in a time of uncertainty
a time to buckle down and a time free up yourself
A time for demonstrating, a time to showed leadership
a time to be happy, a time to be sad,
A time to pull the trigger, a time to seize fire
A time for karma, a time for a relaxing and calm night

Nothing has meaning.
Everything is pointless,
an inane transient cloud.
A single breath of smoke.

Think of all the blood and tears
that you pour into your work.
What do you actually gain
from any of your labouring?
Generations flourish then fade
each one replacing another that passes,
leaving no sign they were ever there,
only the dirt that fell from their feet.

The dawn sun drags itself into the sky
then falls back down as dusk comes,
repeating its dreary cycle over and over
with the same numbing certainty.
The wind gusts towards the south
then changes and rushes north,
mindlessly blowing one way then another,
constant in its confused and erratic pursuits.

Every drop of water ends in the ocean
but the seas are never satiated and so
the rivers and streams keep flowing,
repeating their tedious cycles again.
Every aspect of life inspires apathy
and is filled with indescribable monotony.
Each dull thing bores the eyes blind
and deafens the ears with mundanity.

All that has once been will be again.
Every single thing that takes place
is merely an imitation of another.
There is nothing original on earth.
Some people might claim or insist
that they have something new to offer,
but you can guarantee that all it will be
is a rehashed and repackaged cliché.

All that man achieves will pass away
and the supposedly great things
that will be accomplished in the future,
will also fade  into nothingness.

Remember Him while you are young,
before your days and years grow dim,
before your time finally draws to a close
and you realise that life has ebbed away.
Remember Him before the sun burns out,
before the constellations are turned off
and the dark clouds remain after the rain.
Remember Him on the day the guards quake,
when the soldiers are doubled over in fear,
when the workers stop because they have fallen
and the faces peering through windows fade,
when the doors of houses are closed shut
and the whetstone grinds to a standstill.
Remember Him when people wake to silence
because the birdsong can no longer be heard.
Remember Him when people fear the mountains
and terror finds them wherever they walk.
Remember Him when the almond tree blossoms
and the grasshopper can barely drag itself along,
when all love and desire and passion wither away,
when the mourners come to wander the streets,
because you are reaching your everlasting home.
Remember before the silver ring is melted down
and the golden bowl is smashed into pieces,
before the water jar is shattered at the fountain
and the pulley wheel at the well is broken.
The dust becomes one with the earth again
and your spirit returns to He who gave it.

Nothing has meaning.
Everything is pointless,
an inane transient cloud.
A single breath of smoke.