From the infinite, we are ripped like swollen fruit.
Seeds thrown to soil.
Spring dragging us kicking and screaming,
from the warmth of the womb.
We are plucked like petals, between the fingertips of fate.
Blown like dandelions to the wind.
And so we arise from entropy divided.
Stumbling from our birth to our death.
Desperately looking for ourselves along the way.
Trying to make sense of all these senseless days.
