“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.

About a foolhardy florilegium

Nullius addictus iurare in verba magistri, quo me cumque rapit tempestas, deferor hospes.
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