In this life and time,
we think we’ve seen all.
And we wander that path sublime,
cherish only the good we recall.

Dur’ng those fleeting day,
there ’re events we don’t see.
We caress life, and its decay,
and our unknow fate, with glee.

Love oft is true in our mind,
as is the beat within our heart.
But, shadows are blind,
fill’d with hate, which tears our soul apart.

Emotion paint that picture,
as we hurtle toward the future, we’ve painted.
That will not last, and isn’t richer,
as the canvas we’ve already acquainted.

We’ve painted greens of joy,
fresh grass beyond compare.
But then comes the age, we’re the old boy,
like chrome, that begins to rust and wear.

The final touches we’ve created with care,
and realize the destination is the gallery above.
But do not let the mind wander too far,
it’s precious to a few, those patterns of love.

On the grass, where day expires
with the first salutes of spectators.
The first twilight has formed, as she retires,
while the doe slips by, as if a caretaker.

Gone are the deities of that morn’s dew,
And the fragrance of sprigs of heather.
Now stars appear as ripe fruit where they grew,
but we and they’ll pass, since all must finally pass.