Ghosts in the Machine

We are but ghosts in the machine,
begat from nothingness,
our rise, our desire to be,

We are no more than the whispered fall
of snow upon the mountains,
no more than the silent
smile of ice, pristine.

Our deaths are in the rainbows,
in the butterflies,
in the false promises of spring,
wordless and fleeting.

We cling to every moment,
our every thought espoused supreme.
But we are no more than
30 seconds of life.

When wind and water wash away
our footsteps from the sand,
no one will be weeping;
no one will even notice when we’ve gone.

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