wordplayground

Who cares if life - someone's actual life - is 
Finally insignificant and small. There's still a 
Splendor in the way it flowers once and fades
And leaves a carapace behind. There isn't time to
Linger over why it happened, or attempt to make its
Mystery come to life again and last, like someone
Still embracing the confused perceptions of  himself
Embedded in the past, as though eternity lay there -
For heaven's a delusion, and eternity is in the details, 
And this tiny, insubstantial life is all there is.