We are not born.
We do not die.

The moon, which carves its million mile course through the sky 
Has seen us all coming and going.
One by one, 
Into and out of form and function.

Each life, 
An advancement to no discernible end.

Perhaps an infinite pattern of coming and going
Where only the space between,
Tells of the primal color of what we really are.

Walking in the withered fields, 
Newly taken by November frost,
It is easy to feel that time passes for all of us,
The same as it does for the frost when the sun rises to kiss it with it’s burning lips.

We pass, as all things do, like frost on the grass.

Ashes to ashes,
Dust to dust.

And yet we can never truly die.

We can only come and go, 
From the timeless space between the lifetimes that we live.

Which is what we really are.