Life, they say, is fleeting and brief, A canvas of moments, joy and grief. What we create may fade away, Yet meaning lingers in each day.
“Focus on now, let go,” they declare, But the heart, unbridled, lays itself bare. Where do we pause, where do we bind, When storms of feeling crowd the mind?
To let it flow, or to restrain, A dance between freedom and chain. We walk the edge, not wild, not tame, Living lives that bear no name.
Perhaps the truth lies in the art, Of weaving reason with the heart.
Hope is an umbrella, fragile, thin, Paper-soft against the storm’s fierce din. Can it shield when the skies break apart, Or hold the weight of a weary heart?
Yet, in despair, you’ll clutch its frame, A twig, a thread, a fleeting flame. When all is lost, even the frail will do, A lifeline to grasp, to see you through.
But why not build while skies are clear, A shelter strong, for those held dear? So when storms rage, as storms will rise, There’s safety beneath your steady skies.
