The Process of a Process

A process. That's all it is. That's all it ever was.
A day will come when it crosses the finish line. It, too, aborts.
Until then, its engine's gears are on. In loud color and gigantic sound.
It wants to be worked out. It never seems to tire.
It might be called a tyrant if given full rights without bounds.
A process' wisdom is seen by few, perhaps in retrospect. The storm has blown through. No use in the regret.
Delicately treading in territory new. The older path's been worn. And sages? There are few.
The process keeps on beating with the heart that wants to keep up the singing.
What else to do but go with life's strange currents. With life's all and full blows.
It all unfolds itself in stages as it must. The process' life goes on. The choice is to keep up or remain in sandy dust.
That's really all there is. That's really all there was.
Lucky at doorstep of the hour when it all comes to a perfectly natural halt. When it all graciously dissolves.