Resonating with the beats around...

Resonating with the beats around,
My mind remains confused
When they hit a halt.
It searches for spec of sound,
Gets nothing but the mur mur,
Which follows the end, now profound.
The music's gone,
The blunt chatting switched on,
Everything seems to be so plain
Bright noon-sky against the marvellous dawn...
To it, there's nothing special
In this boring noise,
But it is for sure,
'Some' sound goes on...

Beauty,
Keats calls it 'endless'!
To me, it's relative.
Rather both; beauty and ending.
What defines beauty is our state of mind,
All that pleases it,
Is of the beautiful kind!
End is a pessimist's word
To me, the search for an end,
Never 'ends'...

What if in some world,
Death,
Was liked over birth?
What if there was a place,
Where our good
Was their dearth...?
....
It would not surprise me
If such places exist,
At last all good, all bad
Is relative...