Shades of Sage

What goes around, comes around.

I am deluded by a pond . . .
I watched it almost sardonically -
Anticipating the return of the lost ripple in the waters waves.

Can one see the folly of inconsistency?
And if it is identified, is it a correlative to its former process,
Or is it a derivative to a new phenomenon?

Oh weeping hell, oh sacred dirt where’s the diligence?

I watched my reflection drown, it muttered to me prior to its demise . . .
Why does a source seek its reflection to identify what it is?
It’s like essence finding salvation in its destruction

The scientists squabble so putridly contemplating and contriving directions and motives the cause of winds, the purpose of light . . .

What of evil or beauty?

Is it that brutal and mundane, simplistic symmetry, grotesque repetition?

This fungus just desecrates, it knows of no end, it feels only its own process

My pond is empty and I seek no consumption . . .