Aleatoric Life

Is true as good as any
enough to make a go
spattered on the wall
like Jackson Pollock

Is restless racing
filled with caffine holes
spilling red leaking out
between false starts

Is cracked persistent
forsaken unaware last
empty inches to dream
of gentle hands warmth

Wine peaks with age, resting in its bottle, slumbering beneath its cork. Left too long, it turns to vinegar. Flowers bloom to meet the sun. Left too long, they bend toward the ground in slow decline. Grace is fleeting. When there are no brilliant corners separating walls, and no horizon marking sky from water, when the birds are asleep and the clock is wrong, how will our feelings betray us?