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These are my wandering thoughts, the ideas I have left of life as a whole.

A coin in the hand of a beggar, breath in the lungs of a corpse. The flower that wilts

from the sun'd embrace. 

Perhaps life is thus--

the ebb and flow of a moon's unrequited love, for how could the ocean return her affections?

Are we yet termites clamoring for a taste of that which we cannot reach?

A revolving orb marks the passage of time,

yet the soul remains ageless. 

Life is but an imaginary friend in the mind of a babe, 

ever changing and growing, 

yet gone all together once she realizes she no longer believes.

Perhaps that is the key;

perhaps life is a merely a pocketful of wishes

slung carelessly into a beggars cup.