Synaptic threads interweave tearing apart at escape speed velocities,
I cannot bear to see this masterpiece unraveled.
Have you ever made something then dashed it apart?
It's the horror only the creator of a monster could know.
We who strive day by day below.
The disintegration of that which is one can be so numbing
Should we just throw in the towel and call it a day?
Yet mythical phoenix is not a tale told emptily by hopeless Romantics,
See where the shreds fall into a new pattern?
The discerning eye may alight upon some chance new fragment.
This paradoxical respelling of the universal language happens cyclically
Aeons and Aeons pass as the stories are retold and the characters recast.
Is it true what they say that we are doomed to walk this path again?
All that has happened before WILL happen again?
What is this harsh imperative?
Couldn't we may-be soften it with a may or a would?
The time has passed for such predilections and musings.
Wind blown ashes alight into chance whimsical forms
As the dust settles, it's clear to see that there is a beautiful disarray
Promising that nothing shall be as it was before but rather better and brighter.