We know the seasons, pre-built in our genes –
we know the order: how the cycle goes
from dawn to dusk with intervening woes;
from birth to death with scattered sunny scenes.
We feel those cyclical and planned routines,
where every budding blood-red rose
must surely die, and wilt, and decompose,
bequeathing just a fragrance on the breeze.
We know we’re dead, yet still we carry on
regardless – ludicrous, Quixotic braves;
achievements count for nothing when you’re gone –
except the smile you carry to your grave.
Romantic types like me would say with pride:
“It’s not the destination, but the ride.”