On being

How shall I mark the orbits and seasons,
By births or graves should they be known?
With final breaths will I be brought to wonder
Why any of it was done at all?
Clock hands and calendar pages
Turning and falling with such cruel ease
Seething whirlpools, gyrating sandstorms,
Waterspouts which hiss and boil and suck us in.
They are composed purely and wholly of the stuff of the soul.
Against our wills we are drawn in, whirled round, blinded,
Suffocated, while filled with the giddy rapture
Of simply being