I. A Rolling Stone Gathers No Moss

from above. The sun covers the leaves' faces with a brightness that alludes to

some great barely-hidden majesty; the warm yellow hue of the sun-bathed leaves hints

at some higher reality than the world I observe.The leaves shudder and quake in the breeze,

as if overpowered by some overwhelming force.But only a gentle breeze passes by my window.

The leaves beside my window are lit from above. The sun covers the leaves' faces with a brightness that alludes to some great barely-hidden majesty; the warm yellow hue of the sun-bathed leaves hints at some higher reality than the world I observe. The leaves shudder and quake in the breeze, as if overpowered by some overwhelming force. But only a gentle breeze passes by my window.

A rolling stone gathers no moss, so they say,

But I wonder if moss harms a stone.

Things are gained and lost every day,

So what keeps us from being alone?

If everything changes; if everything's free,

Then why are we here at all?

If everything has been and everything will be,

Then everything's destined to fall.

We chain ourselves to moments; floating in time,

Imprisoned in tomorrow's sweet chains.

We'll sell ourselves-for yet another dime,

Chasing the future the restless mind feigns.

We're so easily seduced by promises of gold,

The distant green light never ceases to glow.

The mirage is elusive; we lose it in the cold,

Already lost what we held in our hands long ago.