quiet but determined manifestations
bleed through the languor of a morn in autumn
each second, minute, hour, and day
whether we are aware or not
accumulate into the cycle of seasons
like fractals they rise and fall beyond unfathomable limits
we have no choice but to birth over boundaries
bewildering the strange yet familiar comeliness
ever subtle this shift from death to life
and back again, a metamorphosis
warmth of the dust, the crackle of purgatory
beneath our feet purifying, terrifying and real