Each month consists of a million days.
Days that spin out endless hours and thus
Earth whirls around the sun; a mad cosmic dance
Repeated because it cannot fail.
Lives flicker and fade. Again and again.
What is life then? An essence of being?
A being of essence?
Why does pain thrust out its hand
And stand in our way; why does love
Beckon and then flee? Why do people go away?
Sometimes joy, like a mirage, promises wild things:
The end of a journey, but destiny's choice inflicts wounds
That bleed and bleed until death, like a friend,
Cuts into suffering and calls an end.
Surely there's more to it than this.
One being's individual life cannot really matter;
Though tears, like acid, can burn the soul
Until it is almost not quite entirely whole.
But to make the soul soar beyond suffering;
To remain impervious to trivial emotion
To remain suspended in exaltation day after day
To ask for nothing but to give everything away
Is perhaps the only surest way.
Rani Turton
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-surest-way/
