A new page

Each hour that one is alive is also
the death hour, realized or not. 
The heart is not getting any lighter.
The brain evidently is not growing. 
Both are cleared once in a while 
but that's only turning a new page.
Not getting up to be a new book. 
And the gene pool bubbles only
for some time, waiting uncaringly
to lend a few spoonfuls of cells. 
One is a mere coin flipping in the 
dark pocket of cosmos and our 
lives are perched on family trees
swaying in the breeze that is
ever so pleasant and untelling.