On living

Like pebbles
at the pond
we are all
tossed into it;
this eternal becoming.
And we've named
it too:
living.
Stumbling down
the path
and stopping often
to gaze upon
some fleeting
beauty before,
again, we stumble.
The sun rises and sets
and still
we carry on.
Sometimes
one meets
a second self,
and together
they stumble,
until one
falls behind,
and both feel
a deep loss,
each seeing
the reflection
of the other
for a time after.
And thus,
we are plagued
with equal amounts
of loss and
gain, longing
and hope, which
together form
an anxiety so
strong, one could
bear no more
of it.
The memory
of the origin
of the path
fades, and
is replaced
by memories
of moments
full of bliss
or full of despair.
We think equally
of the path
already traveled
and what may lie
on the path
ahead, yet,
at any given
point in time,
we remain on the
ground where
we currently walk.
The steady rythm,
footsep after footstep,
ends when
the last breah
is exhaled;
the last bit
of strength is
lost;
the final thought
leaves the brain,
and each of us
collapse to the
ground, defeated.
And, though one
may fight against
it, we all will,
invariably,
fall.