Might Be

Might be. Or not.
Is it done? Undone?

The unraveling pieces of the fanciful concoctions authored by a tired, stressed mind lie around
they float
they dance
along with the wakening of something old
they die.

Or is it they're being born unto another realm?

Lo and behold! A gaping void! What was there before? Why is something amiss?
What was before a 'fell swoop' came around? Why would we miss it if it were to not be?

Shh. Hear them laughing.
They aren't there, yet they laugh.
They aren't there, they are incapable of action, of emotion.

They laugh at us.

Or is that the cry of a weak mind? The sorrow of the lost?
Why not the sorrow of the earned, the won, the found?

Yes, yes, they cry. The found cry earnestly in a vague solution comprised of nothingness and helplessness.

Hear! For their cries are the voice alarm.
Listen, and fear! For the time comes in which the path is broken, the road blocked
no stone fixed upon the floor, no firmness in the ground.

Now, they cry. Shed a tear for the life unknown.