The stories we live
are bound beneath
the covers of land and sky
and the days in between
are the pages
from hello to our goodbye
Each turning sun
brings a new day
closer to the hour
Where all good things
must come to a close
when death holds the power
We scratch our name
in the dirt and dust, till wind
blows away existence
leaving behind
scraps of our mind
and fragments of our presence
To toil much and embed a mark
only in soiled strife
is vanity to have had a name
not etched in the book of life