If we are all atoms
always moving, never at rest
then how do we find our purpose
in this world of which we thrive?
From birth
until death
we become the colors -
black, blue, purple, brown -
of our bruises
It is only once that we experience
eighteen
young, invincible, bold
yet frightened of the future
We live out our lives
never sure of what comes next
We become so set
on grasping what we cannot hold
that we ourselves
become nothing but confusion
But in the end
we live our lives of paper
serving our purpose
then fluttering into the trash.