Cutting and clearing the way through the brush,
the source is calling but there is no rush.
Death and decay are the fuel of rebirth,
the burbling brook sounds of nature's mirth.
Ends and beginnings are one in the same,
with some detachment it all feels so tame.
A perfect circle recycles the cosmos-
while all existence feeds the ouroboros.
The past and the future will never be known;
prisons to escape as we make our way home.
Life is but creation and destruction,
raw materials to feed our construction.
