Nature delivers all that she promises fairly.
She hands us the reality of death,
to be either denied and abhorred or accepted and understood.
I lay under an opened night sky, bitter.
I am agony as the stars wax and wane by my eyes inability to focus.
Of the lessons to be instructed,
this seems, to me, so implored by my spirit.
Looking out into the nether,
my mind attempts a fathoming of what it means to be endless,
like space seems to be in any singular moment.
When I am close to an end at any moment,
my mental prowess is under strain.
All things, even those beyond my grasp, are cyclical.
Stars are born from dust to die in dust.
The Universe, born, will end.
Our Sun, the life-giver, warmth and light,
once mere molecules will return to such.
I can not escape this truth.

I, like all life here, was born to be swallowed back into Earth.
A cruel thing it is, to be destined to loss,
always looming in the future.
In our past, all have been ended,
like I will have been to those who proceed me.  
I have long-since been swallowed by rivers and dirt.
I have given birth to grass and inspired trees to bear their seeds.
I have issued new men to prosper and time to pass.
Though solemn this truth, all will follow behind me.