“Tomorrow is another day”
so often we do blithely say.
But on that day, what will we be?
Will we still alive; still be free?
But in the end should we even care,
we’ll find out if we make it there.
Tomorrow is another day
and karmically it’s when we pay
for the deeds from now long past;
we’ll reap the fruit of seeds we’ve cast
upon the soil that is our life
where weeds and thorns are often rife.
But down among the mess we see
there is the truth that sets us free.
For oft it’s among the sharpest thorn
that the sweetest fruit is born.
There is no garden without growth;
of grime and beauty there is both.
There’s life and death, growth and decay;
the spectrum wide of Gaia’s play.
I look upon this wicked soul
and wonder “How can it be whole.”
But somewhere deep inside I see
there’s beauty striving to be free.