The Rising Sun Resting

And so it goes on and on and on, this deception of earthly means commonly called living. A looking the other way, a silence of what one's heart is bleeding to speak, a laying in the wrong place with only the loneliness of good intentions, and an infinite hunger of the soul with unimaginable depth that goes without. There are no acts of aggression no turning of tides, only the quiet passing of passion like a dust upon the winds of time. In the end storms pass, the warm winds die, and the dirt settles into the ground, returning from whence it came. Things shall be as they will; and still, on and on and on it must go, the rising, the resting, the capitulation of dust unto dust.