Thought Of A Riddle

It was built out of nothingness

In the image of its creators

With time, it grew

Fortified and firm

Until one day it crumbles on exposure

To other influences

And is built anew.

The greying wind breezes past it often

Eroding it; sometimes by bits,

Sometimes to bits.

And a rebirth is forced.

Thus it stands on a tight-rope

Liked and loathed

And in due course

It creates one of its own kind

After its own image.


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