Explain to me please – the point of a tigers’ footprints in the snow.
Deep impressions in the impermanence.
If only existence was different to the transience of shadows in frozen water.
Though we try to assume the might of doomed dinosaurs and leave our mark in clay or sand or mud, time will erase and erode our time as if we never existed.
So, we cast glances back and forth and wonder what will we leave behind?
What impression will yet to be born archaeologists unearth of us?
Will we all just be dust?
No marker by our grave.
No one to call us just or right or brave.
A mere in darkness flickering of light.
A small, gentle but firm attempt to be right.
That residue of once we were, that says, yes, sometimes I erred, but at least I tried, I tried, and tried.