Life

a forest stretches for miles around
dark and foreboding,
all encompassing, undulating.
 

Leaves litter the ground,
drifting and spinning,
they follow a path woven by the wind.
 

The path weaves through the trees,
high and low,
passing through torturous fields of ice and snow.
 

says one leaf to his partner,
'what is the point of our travels?'
came back a reply,
'..................................'

 

 

[A discussion of the meaning of life with an end aptly fitting something that humans do not understand (The original poem had no ending...ask me for the final line I concieved for it). The seemingly meaningless patterns to life lead us in circles of intellectual despair. Perhaps the answer is to simply stop asking, and just be?]

 


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