Knife Wins the Gunfight

"We grow, mostly, by dying."
We're tumbling-down cliff sculptures,
Whole mountains throwing ourselves
Into the relentless rains,
Winds, snows that belittle us,
Carving our heaped-up masses
Of similar synapses,

Similar as sandstone grains
And by themselves as boring.
But the acrobatic law
Of entropy whittles us,
Pretty accident patterns,
Red arches for gunslingers
Of thoughts to draw and bleed on.