Each month consists of a million days. <br />Days that spin out endless hours and thus <br />Earth whirls around the sun; a mad cosmic dance <br />Repeated because it cannot fail. <br />Lives flicker and fade. Again and again. <br /> <br />What is life then? An essence of being? <br />A being of essence? <br />Why does pain thrust out its hand <br />And stand in our way; why does love <br />Beckon and then flee? Why do people go away? <br /> <br />Sometimes joy, like a mirage, promises wild things: <br />The end of a journey, but destiny's choice inflicts wounds <br />That bleed and bleed until death, like a friend, <br />Cuts into suffering and calls an end. <br /> <br />Surely there's more to it than this. <br />One being's individual life cannot really matter; <br />Though tears, like acid, can burn the soul <br />Until it is almost not quite entirely whole. <br />But to make the soul soar beyond suffering; <br />To remain impervious to trivial emotion <br />To remain suspended in exaltation day after day <br />To ask for nothing but to give everything away <br />Is perhaps the only surest way.<br /><br />Rani Turton<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-surest-way/
