Life, a Reflection, or a Predestined Repetition
Are our lives a reflection in time,
a mirrored image, so much repeated,
a doppelganger, of sorts, and one,
that is a haunting, not depleted?
Perhaps an obsession, of a compulsivity,
continued time and again,
done all over, as leaflets of clover,
of a universe, in which we all spin?
A re-birth, not to be a singular one,
but the repetition, of our condition,
as star systems, to evolve and revolve,
an infinity's limitless procession.
As bathed in an ocean of waters,
who's depths, to fathom an explanation,
must we be a part and parcel, re-made,
as in a mystery, a consternation?
Are we a sparkling of light, our lives,
of the intricate, of space's population,
then to be reformed, in the fabrics of each,
of the continuing propagation?
Could each, as a person, to be so unique,
never to be, as a multiplication,
in our asking, to question, a thousand things,
deserves a positive explanation.
Our God did not make us, with a duplicate,
our minds, and spiritual composition,
Each one a special and soul filled entity,
as a precious rose, a divine intervention.
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