A box of beads,
Different
colors, shapes and sizes,
Rolling
around but
Confined to
the container.
Randomly
bouncing
Off each
other.
No pattern
emerging,
Emitting a
noisy clatter.
Is that
life?
Isolated, differing
events
Kept
together only by the confines
Of birth and
death.
Or are those
events
Strung
together in a pattern,
Held by the invisible
cord,
Of a world
view.
I grieve for those I see,
Living scattered lives,
Empty-headed, hazy,
Thoughtless lives.
When they bounce off
The final edge of the box,
Will they look back on
A life of unstrung beads?
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