Future Ash

The clouds pass overhead
Much in the same way
The Earth spins round its axis,
Without thought or feeling.
A star is born, burns and dies
And does it all in silence,
All ebb and flow and infinity
Without laughter or tears.
Better to be passed over, I say,
Better to be spun, re-spun then spun again,
To be tied into countless knots upon knots
And spend the little time we have
Madly trying to undue them.
Better to be born, to burn, to die
In utmost confusion,
In beautiful, ear-splitting noise.
Better to laugh and to cry
All beating heart and bated breath,
All future ash,
Reaching for but not quite grasping
Anything and everything
And coming up with nothing
Except for what we feel.