Tuesday, September 2, 2008

Wick of Hay

The wind is always shifting,
changing, never stays the same.
We are born but for a moment
just to leave as ne'er we came.

Our footprints mark the sand
but impressions are so shallow.
Barely are they seen before
the changing tide does follow.

A name - a fleeting boast
crumpled dust upon the breeze.
The heart, a rhythmic hopebeat
like a drop upon the seas.

Like a spark of ready powder
is the pride of man at day,
a flash of willful arrogance
snuffed out as wick of hay.

Before the words are spoken
life is gone, it did not matter.
The hopes and dreams and passions
are like bones upon a platter.

Life is always shifting,
changing, never stays the same.
Hope is born but for a moment
just to leave as ne'er it came.

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