No one wants to think about
The broad swath of the
Reaper’s scythe,
The sure inevitability that
This is but a mortal shell,
Our time allotted a mere
instant
In the span of Mother Earth,
Hardly time to blink an eye,
A story far too hard to tell.
There are those who pause and
ponder
What and why and where and
when,
Many who would beg and plead
A chance to do it all again.
There are those who seize the
moment
Knowing well there is no end,
Just a minor inconvenience
Before a new life can begin.
Circles,
Cycles,
Wheels that turn,
A twisting pinwheel in the wind,
There are always new
beginnings
If you know where to begin.
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