Ashes to ashes, dust to dust;
Pieces of matter or wanderlust?
All things must pass, both good and bad.
Few certainties exist, or can be had.
Stairways, portals, theories exist;
Round and round they surely twist.
Ghosts and castles, fortresses sealed tight.
Penetrate them, or fear that others might.
Does the wind cry or sing a pretty song?
Fear not, it depends which way she blows.