The Ravings of a Poet

What once was, forever taken it is.
What rises from the sea, will someday return.
As the sun was born from dust, so dust shall burn the sun
And the cycle of birth and death continues.

The words I write will last a while,
And slowly they'll reenter my mind.
A thought once forgotten, dead in my head,
That lived in my writing comes home.

A reunion between mind and thoughts,
A somber celebration, as the scribblings are lost
The ravings of a mind relayed to others now dead,
Born again in the mind of the creator.

A leaf falls off of a tree
As it decays, it becomes the soil,
the soil that the tree consumes through its roots,
Funny, as the roots of the meal are in the tree itself.

So then we look at the roots of the route
Through which the mind has traveled,
A path, like a pathogen, almost contagious in nature,
One nurtured through thought, and forever increasing in complexities

Yet the complexity must peak, and entropy must ensue
The mind will degrade until it returns to its infancy
The path will loop to its beginning, and this pathogen affects all.
No mind is immune, and the end is the beginning, emptiness.

An empty mind has the capacity to learn all
But has no special features itself.
A cargo box is useful, but pointless without cargo.
The dead have no cargo, but death to life it goes

From ashes to ashes from dust to dust, from clichè to petty clichè.
The repetition, is true, but false.
The ending is just a beginning, but the beginning is not the same as the start.
The ending of a star can be a burst of light, but its new life is different.

Uniqueness is the difference between the ashes
Difference keeps the dust unique.
No two things are the same, even if they are the same thing.
As the end begins, and the beginning ends, the cycle of rebirth becomes a a vector

A vector of progress,
Showing that there is no cycle of reincarnation
Rather a cycle of change in a single thing,
Aimed towards an ultimate uniqueness.

As that sun burns out, and releases its last spec of energy,
Small dust particles are born.
They are not the hot mess that made the sun,
But a hot mess made from the sun.

A birth to one is a death to another
A new beginning is a much-needed end
To all perspective, and to none the tunnel,
Drawn with perspective, but representing a lack thereof.

Contradictions are everywhere, yet nowhere can you find them
For something true cannot in itself be false.
But the falsehood itself is a truth, and so the truth is a lie.
The cycle is a truth that lies to those involved.

The you after you is not the same as you.
The you, you are now, is you; you aren't you in the future.
Change is inevitable, and all change is bad
(All change is good as well) Where do you stand, in the well, or above it?

The life of life is long and prosperous, but its death will bring a new age.
Is there a different life to come from the life, life once lived?
Yet at that time, these ravings of a poet will be long forgotten,
And have returned to my mind in a new perspective.