The process of becoming other than,
the shedding of the old by way of time
the hands upon the clock traverse their span,
the ever fleeting moment reigns, sublime.
The emptiness of all objective forms,
the rushing river, never stepped in twice,
the reconfiguration of all norms,
the virtues of lost ages seen as vice,
The elements converge and then react,
the caterpillars weave themselves cocoons,
the world amends its stock of gathered facts,
the moths emerge, in flight to greet the moon,
The firmament, destroyed and rearranged,
the universal essence, found in change.
I'm actually beginning to enjoy writing these.
