A dotted line ending where it begins
Stopped before it starts
Curving along it’s coarse
Past me, Past you, no one left out
Before my birth
Past my grave
Yet still never starting before it stops

Some dots connect
Developing a picture of our life
Deciding our death
One which must be made

To fulfil a need
To satisfy greed
To travel miles
And search for a lifetime
For the perfect rosebud
All of which are different

Then it happens
The dot in motion
On your deathbed
You begin to realize
There is no perfect one
To spend a life devoted for perfection
Is a life wasted
Then the dot turns into an X
Your soul out of body
Out in the air
Gone in a gust
Enters a seed, next to a tree
By a field, near a pile of mud
Making yet another
Perfect Rose Bud
 
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