The cycle begins with a haphazard arrangement of passions
Though, the cycle never has a beginning nor and end
Constructed human fantasies that fetishize beginnings and endings
But the body was aware of the chill in the air
And the blazing heat and the first time you hear birds
A constant cycle
A birth and a death eternally stumbling over one another
It's hard to meet grief because she constantly changes faces
Grief, once, told me she wears many masks
Too much going on to keep track but consistent in her visits
At least I expect to meet her when the leaves on the trees are gone
And the grass is covered in snow
Or the buds on the trees bloom
And warm rain showers down from above
Perpetual state of dawn and dusk
Cyclical and cynical
Constantly changing as I walk the time line, getting older
As I spend another revolution around the sun
Grief told me she wore many masks
And I see her, sitting at a table
Expectant of us to begin this again
