It comes, and it goes,
It stops, but never flows.
It reaps what it sows,
It dances on its own.

It amazes, it bores,
As old as folklore.
A tragedy, a mystery.
Dreams it has sold,
Realities it has blown.

Every soul, every mind
caught in its bind—
A relentless grind,
The echo of a thought unkind.

© P.S