Sages have since long wondered what this thing called "life" means
I say it's a string of bad decisions, of what-could-have-beens

It's the seed destined to grow into a tree with bountiful fruit
Swallowed by the Earth, never sprouting so much as a single shoot

It's the cloud seething with life hovering over ever so patiently
Never to burst, forsaking the barren land to infertility

But perhaps the seed never knew of the poisonous fruit it would've birthed
And neath the unaware cloud rested weary travellers upon shadowy Earth

So maybe life is a string after all, of things I yet can't see
Maybe all the what-could-have-beens were just never meant to be