I wish to speak now child,
unto the ears of the sheep
Words are not for you.
You, I give my artwork
framed, pieces of my darkest works
deep like the hours that go on for days
Cycling, cycling, always the same
Every morning grows to day
Identically predictable
Just as was the day before
as it was days, and days since past
I am aware that each breath
is one less that we get to take,
What is off is that it doesn't bother me
I don't worry how I waste each one
Watching the leaves of fall start falling
dried, cracked, severed, falling
the leaves resemble yesterday
floating, and falling on the winds
from far above and out of reach
to the forest floor, the earth,
to feed the soil and dirt.