There was one who set out to write
About a journey without certain destination
Steps taken without established purpose –
Likened to the plight of a dry leaf
Tossed by winds into waiting flames
Transformed into floating embers,
Pregnant with unmitigated, undirected destruction.
Taking a quill and rummaging through his thoughts,
He wrote down this line and paused:
“What if the journey were the destination?”
There was another who sat down to write
Of his life, which he felt coming to an end.
Quill in hand and parchment before him,
He willed his life to flash before his eyes.
In reflection and contemplation, he sobbed;
Filled the air with lamentations laden with regret
As his weary old bones shook in protest
To the sudden exertion, and the weight of ‘nothingness’.
His heart beat stutteringly under the unforgiving grip
Of pent-up emotion, inexplicable fear, and sudden urgency.
With trembling hands, he scribbled down a line,
“I’m sorry for wasting so much time!”
As his eyes grew dim and his body lifeless.