Edwin Cordero

The Sun rises again,
Shedding itself over hills.
The clouds dissipate
To clear its way
Through.
It runs the same trend—
Spreading influential thrills
Over mounds that steer the fate
Of walking graves
Anew.

I cannot stand the mystery
Or the coincidence:
Actions that bring misery
Are of no consequence
To the history
Of existence.

We walk towards where?
Is the finish line anywhere?
Do we even care?