The irony of existence

In muck grows the rose,
whence pain gives prose.
From darkness shines bright
the wonder of a light
bearing explosive brilliance.

The fallen tree gives
space wherein blossom lives.
From roots buried deep
the nutrients seep
bearing vibrant dalliance.

The Thief Who Gives

What is time but the space between objects?
What are objects but the time of a space?
What is space but the object of time?

The faster we go, the slower our world.
The brighter we are, the darker our shadows.
The harder we push, the softer their pull.

All things are connected by nothing, and nothing is made up of all things.