In midnight's cloak, where shadows kiss, The stars ignite a sparkling bliss. Moonbeams waltz with silken grace, Night's allure, a dream's embrace. Through midnight's hush, soft whispers sing, Bliss unfurls on velvet wing. Time suspends in lunar glow, Serenity in darkness flows.
To who does the credit go for the creation of the universe? Could a world such as ours even be designed? Many times i have studied the patterns of rocks and grass and wondered if such a being could exist; one capable of such accuracy in its creation. But, such a being must also design the failures of my life, the mistakes, the awkward conversations. To what debt do I, nor everyone, owe this being for it to be so cruel? May such a debt ever be repaid? What purpose does repaying an endless debt serve other than to continue that passage of time?
Endless. Such is the life of a grain of sand; forever ephemeral in the sea of the world. What hope does it give to never see the sun rise, yet feel its presence all the same. What can we expect of our lives, if not for the waves of emotion that we ride along? What meaning can there ever be other than meaningless in such a world?
It never bends and only breaks. Trust is brittle. Do what it takes.