Are they written in indelible ink

Or are they just like flowers temporary, are they just for show

Do they bloom just for the season

Or is there some deeper reason

How we know what we know

And when the thinker leaves, does the thought also go

Do our plans and dreams and hopes and screams evaporate into the air

Like a dying rose petal turns to dust

Or does some celestial keeper press them in between the pages of eternity

To be preserved forever there