Ba Bum

Even good times must pass away and die
Into the future; forward lies who knows?
A wasteland into which our purpose grows
Untamed, untended as the fields that lie
Fallow, despite our efforts. We will, by and by,
See what will sprout, but in the random throes
Of germination, that which purpose sows
Is often lost, no matter how we try.
But what we reap need not be bad for good;
There can be benefit in random findings,
As when, despite uncertain trackless windings
We find ourselves arriving where we would
As if by magic. The subconscious brings
Good in the end, even from worser things.