The meaning of life?
So much time is wasted searching
rather than living.
In the end, it matters not
from where the stream flows
that it does is the miracle.
What value does it add to draw
meaning from an open book
with words yet to be written;
where essence, even when captured
in words, is but a shadow of what came
before and what will come after.
So much is said and written in haste,
With meanings lost in cocooned words,
That has never felt tears of sadness,
Nor tasted love, happiness or joy.
Being merely strings of letters, bound,
Imbued with only a simple kiss,
And lacking the fullness of emotions,
They pale compared to night and day.
Unable to fathom the true depth
Of sorrow, they only reflect,
An image of the ocean, a moment,
A vision, of what maybe but never
Rich enough to capture pure essence.
Never to know the glory of the sun
And the elegant beauty of the moon.
Being only cast out of straw, they will
Eventually dissipate in the mist of time.
Even when beaded together to shine,
However beautifully they may be,
The fate of words is not to be
The ocean but merely the pond.
Not to be the master of the sun,
But to live in its eternal shadow
And point towards true beauty.
J M Lysun