there is a flight at the end of days.
death is and will always be.
it is the silence in the roar of the maddening crowd.
it keeps on pushing and driving the stream of life
into that bone dry bed.
and when that bed is made, laid out in its emptiness..
somehow we hope there is salvation in that underground,
saving us from our own extinction.
like the fish that swims upstream.
we fight each day to live, to survive.
we hope, we dream, we laugh, we cry.
then only to find in our destination
that it was the journey after all.
Life, Life, Life.
Rhonda.
