chance

blow the wind
in and
out again
monstrous gains
are made
with cause
and effect.
In fact, in
all our pains,
there is none
so true
as dying.

reborn, you say?
as what, ask
I
your box seems
still
too small.

but soon,
cold friend the
wind blows
in.

soon, quite soon
the questions
still
but not
the
ones within.
we carry
through, bourne
in wind
as born, we live
and die.

chance drives
much
of pain I bear.
choices seem
so very small.
then I
awake
and
find
my
soul
asleep
upon
death's grave.

still not
without its
own
harsh glare
stiffness
and soft
remorse, some peace.
my willing
leap to
still my soul
brings wind in
through
my open door.

confusion
reeks
of
pitiless
gaze
and
harrowing
ifs
and
what
could
be
and yet,
I force my
soul to
cry.
What if the wind should cease?