Where does the wind go?

Where does the time go?

When will the sun stay,

always in the sky?

I feel that there’s a rhythm,

and the song will never end,

but I know that there’s an ending

I just don’t know when.

I hope that one day then,

when it all comes crashing down,

I can see the lands where all that time had gone to,

and where the winds are all around,

where the sun shines every morning,

and a song.

If there should be a higher dimension to go to,

and more dimensions below,

am I still in the beginning,

or am I near their height?

I must be somewhere in the middle.

Living out this strange life.




I wonder how that Rolling purple foliage of an onion ended up ambling across the parking lot. That somewhere in the world an onion grew from the ground, was shipped, and stored, and sold,

all the while the flaky chemical structure growing closer to it’s final escape; the individual cells perhaps even aware that they drive into what would seem a vast and endless expanse.

It brings to mind that I may be breathing the same air that filled the lungs of Caesar or breezed through the deep hush of Brazil,

Whether the speck of dust that catches the odd light in the window could have been carried over the sea and the sands of Arabia, the same wind that pushes this ambling husk along its useless journey across the barren tarmac.

If we only knew the scope of effects, perhaps we would be crueler or kinder.