November 9, 2006

What kind of writing will remain,

Carved into asphalt and concrete plain?

Pass a million nights from this,

And what sign proves I exist?

Contemplate one's own demise,

And verily run out of time:

Without a moment left for thought,

All the worry will be for naught.

Regardless of our own intent,

Both heart and breath will soon be spent;

For within each breast lies destiny.

Strings of hope and frailty

Are all that tie one trice to next.

Spun to a fragile spider web,

Linking heart to heart to head,

Mine own thoughts to yours in turn –

Exponentially, the heart will yearn.

One beat, one breath, connecting all

Until the silken string cannot fall.

Within a thought, a unique spark,

A flash of brilliance forms an arc.

Yet disregarded, will not fade,

Nor linger to a ghostly shade,

But born again, down the web.

A tide of thought's consistent ebb

Allows an endless sea of time

For thoughts malignant or benign.

What kind of writing can remain

On shores more ancient and arcane

Than concrete or asphalt terrain?

In depths that will not entertain

Hesitation's powerful reign?