DEMISE

By folly or fate
the head chooses
and we are
succumb
to the madness
of where
life drifts.
Plans
are the relatives
for intentions.
But they are also like vines
having a season.
When winter
comes,
all the furrows of design
still end up dormant.
Upon them the tombstones of boasting
are used as title deeds
for preserving the boundaries
claimed as success.