Lives of Paper

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.