A wisp of smoke, fading away.

A rose past its prime, wrinkled, wilted, falling apart.  

Dewdrops in the noonday heat, fragile, ephemeral.

Rays of the sun swallowed by the darkness.


Is this all I am?

Is that all we are?

Is this all there is?

Is that all life is?


We are here now.

They are with us now.

We see them no more.

They are suddenly gone.


Is this our only lot.

In this here journey called life?

It troubles me; this question eats me alive.

How I hope it is much more than this.