that one thing for certain — all
in existence stands
firm against passing —
like buttercups in the middle of streams
transient, fragile, willing
to do what it takes to survive.

little yellow-headed stalks
breaking the running crystal,
etching the neverending V
for Vita brevis est,
for victory,
for the day when silence burns sunlight.

yet all things must die,
brave and furious, prepared
or unready, still and in motion,
in joy and in pain, all
that stands up against death
is consumed in its fire.

from ashes, in ashes, by ashes
under the merciless breath
of entropy, linear time and
superstitions besetting the minds
of the living, death passes
and goes on — for certain, thing, one, that.

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