Pieces of fragments
turning to dust
in a constant shattering
by our thought’s action,
of that reasonable deed
that disturbs the images,
representations of what’s real.
It don’t matter how things end
because their corpse isn’t even cold
when we twist around our memories
only to fit an ongoing narrative,
and then, facing a new demise,
procrastination becomes king of the dance
and so on the final rest is left undone.
Echoes that pierce into us
caused by our own ripples
still produce new waves,
thou they be unnoticed.
And it’s pointless to pretend
that things have a meaning
only when they find an end:
maybe it’d be more corageous
to just say No and put and end to it.