If I cry out to a gaze of boisterous
watchers, as every star falling out of the
sky, —I’d too, feel so out of place. I would
appear, a feast to Time, by just a second’s graze.
Truly startled at how short a life is;
even by the Greener pastures we so
meaninglessly hunt after; do know
full well, all the grass that grows so
promising; will all eventually be grazed.
And perhaps the purple envy I had
for the freedom’s worth knitted into
the sky, would all at last turn so grey,
And so, I would cry a river’s mountain,
upon knowing how much time I spent,
chasing after meaningless things in all my days.
For the cares of the world offers
only a moment’s praise,
Till I’m of course consumed, with finding
the reasoning to clarify such a craze—
I’d have no answer to my Creator’s name;
and I’d be so ashamed.
