Cosmos
Signs of plentiful years abound:
Open gates, rotting fences,
dormant tree branches. A path of
sanity is rutted with mud, tears of
the cosmos indifferent to wishes of any
living creature’s roiling blood.
Colorless forests quietly
harbor life, bereft of purpose, as if
purpose is pain. Disquietudes of a
breeze are mournful melodies sung by
no one willingly. I walk slowly, stepping
over cow patties, shedding tears as rain.
Becoming one with a scene is neither
required nor necessary to gleaning its
beauty or gore. Life’s significance,
likewise, depends on nothing said or
implied within grief’s spiritual vacuum,
hollowed by what was and is no more.
©Rick Burnett Baker
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