a leaf bends, does it not to the wind?

and what is life but adaptation

at every corner, another curveball

hits the wall, cracks, like stained glass

colors so vibrant till the ink spills to the

ground. wet, red. angry.

then the water no longer adapts, solidifies,

no longer wanting to change

when change is about stagnation,

not transforming to another state

where wind is a blessing.

for is it not true,

that lies and truths

mean little when

the journey and destination

are what matters?

bend, bend, bend

till the flexible tree no longer

reaches for the sun.