Apocalypse

Every moment

Is an apocalypse of the self,

A turning of our hopes and dreams to sand.

What we had built: nothing.

What we had longed for: a puff of smoke.

In this way,

Even our lives as a whole can be viewed

As nothing more than a planting of seeds,

A fertilization of earth so that each generation

Does not have to experience what the preceding did.

Our pains: stored in time.

Our successes: innately remembered,

So that the next generation inherits them as gifts.

What we think of as the self is but a momentary vessel of water.