bend

a leaf bends, does it not to the wind? and what is life but adaptation at every corner, another curveball hits the wall, cracks, like stained glass colors so vibrant till the ink spills to the ground. wet, red. angry. then the water no longer adapts, solidifies, no longer wanting to change when change is about stagnation, not transforming to another state where wind is a blessing. for is it not true, that lies and truths mean little when the journey and destination are what matters? bend, bend, bend till the flexible tree no longer reaches for the sun.