our shape is mood and malady,
with wit and whim, our form —
so sometimes we’re the valley,
and sometimes we’re the storm.
we sit and soak, or rant and rail,
we send the winds, or bend —
and some things that are everything
turn nothing, in the end.
for what we feel is fathomless,
our understanding, slight —
to live as storms and valleys, till
the coming of the night.
our shape is ever-changeable,
and past analysis —
and we know that we cannot know,
for life is
what it is
To share is human:
