The Movement

Our lives are an unending movement –
sometimes rhythmic, sometimes not –
a stirring springing up to fade away,
a ripple in the fabric of the world;
just one continuous movement
carrying us underway,
complete with a beginning and an end
and a drawn-out intermezzo in-between
as were it in itself a poem
or perhaps a brushstroke drawn
by sure or unsure hand across
the fabric of space;

it can be smoothly, swiftly made by certain hand
as the finest works of art and science,
or turn into a broken, unsure question-mark
awaiting time to solve the mysteries of its existence

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