Col

So beautifully flowing,

so sporadically chaotic,

so miraculously conjoined,

the fact of existance,

so matter-of-fact,

as we live to simply not be.

Nothing may begin if there be no end,

a spectacularly normal finale.

Sooner or later the fat lady must belt her most beloved note,

but you or I will not hear our own meldious tone of resonance.

The fact of life is fridgedly hollow,

we live to die,

all that remains on the in-between is simply killing time,

waiting for the clock to strike "0:00:00:00.00",

along with the flow,

perfectly in-tune.