Rhythm of Life

Rhythm of life,
Stop, stutter, rev, go.

Arrive and leave,
Dream of the destination,
Dream of going home.

Spend a year planning and dreaming of a week,
Watch it disappear in a moment.

Disappointment in those things we hold above and look forward to,
Absolute joy in the surprising little moments between,
Ebb and flow.

We are all too familiar with it,
All our infinitely unique lives moving in an absolutely predictable pattern,
With age we see the pattern form,
Swear to buck the trend,
And watch our lives follow the trail of predictability,
And in the end be joyful we had anywhere to go at all.

Life,
Funny they say,
A ride,
Something we all must do,
And something we all don’t understand,
Billions of trains motoring toward nothing,
Loving and hating the view on the way,
But always motoring on,
Never able to stop,
Just pausing to regroup and reload,
Always hopeful the destination will fit all our criteria,
Never sure if it does.

This is a predictable poem,
Written by a predictable man who can see where he’s headed,
Where he’ll go on the way,
And so damn excited to motor on.