Caught in the Wash

Everything is random, by the forces upon them.

It flows, then it hurdles and cascades, thoughtless of the rocks.

It scatters, then gathers a great wave.

It crashes, it corodes and creates it anew.

We are the pebble, caught in the wash.

If we’re still as we tumble we can only just hear, the roar of whatever was, and the hiss of what will become.

And know, for a moment, that we are the where, where it all came to be.

Comfort

You, can fall asleep in my arms

And nothing will come of it

But the sweetest of dreams

Pennyless

It is often reported like some pathetic punchline, with the passing of some once great man, who’s glory is well behind him that he “died pennyless”.

I say, since you can take nothing with you, it’s best to leave nothing behind.

Best to leave this world with an empty purse, but with a full heart overflowing.

May we, might we, take this with us when we die? It seems like this is the way it ought to be.