From the tales of ancient prophecy 

The rivers run to eternity without end 

The destiny of all things certain

A return to the same place in time

Only to be swallowed up and reborn into the new age 

Destined to repeat for eons again

All the tales remain the same 

Each world, every culture knows them all by different names 

The winds of change and the bringers of the next step

The Hand of God they are called 

Blind to their purpose, they know only what has been deferred to them

Used only as a facet by something Higher

By what?

And so this trial will come and go without leaving much of a trace 

Lost to time and brought forth again 

Bursting into the new world 

Flying into existence knowing not what was before 

Specs on a cosmic plane toiling away until decadence

Awakened by flying chariots and put to rest in eternal slumber 

Their souls sent back to the void from which they came until called upon once more

Doomed by their composition


This poem is about: 
Our world


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