The Rising Sun Resting Poem by Smoky Hoss

And so it goes
on and on and on,
this deception of earthly means
commonly called living.
A looking
the other way,
a silence of what one's heart
is bleeding to speak,
a laying in the wrong place
with only the loneliness of good intentions,
and an infinite hunger of the soul
with unimaginable depth that goes without.
There are no acts of aggression
no turning of tides, only
the quiet passing
of passion like a dust
upon the winds of time.
In the end
storms pass, the warm winds die,
and the dirt
settles into the ground,
returning from whence it came.
Things shall be as they will;
and still,
on and on and on
it must go,
the rising, the resting,
the capitulation of dust unto dust.