We are born to die either by fire or ice,
By being strangled or poisoned,
By being alone, or at a party with friends,
By sleeping or by dancing under the moonlight.
There's a thousand ways to die, and we don't know which way would be ours.
All alone, the man made from sand sat on a desert ground,
With hands folded on his legs, he faces his demons,
Thoughts...endless thoughts it was at what awaits him after death,
And probably what he would be known by the world,
Maybe the mark he'd leave or, would his existence leave no mark?
Questions like that worry the soul of a man created from sand,
His shadows stood still like a watch tower,
In deep thoughts of what would happen to its existence.
Looking around where he stood, he let out a big sigh while shaking its head,
No mark left? It asked the evening voice.
One day, we will all be gone to the great beyond,
As the world of living for a thousand years is gone,
We would be left all alone six feet below the ground,
With no family or friends by our side,
Even our existence to our enemies would be null,
And all that we would have is the sand above and beneath us.
Are you like the desert man who faces the storm head on,
And leaves his mark on the ground as the wind blows it off?
Or a man who works endlessly while giving the world nothing?
Whatever man you intend to be, be a man that leaves his mark on the world.
Not just any mark, but a mark you'd be proud of.
Still yours truly,
Balikis.
Thanks for reading.
Peace be unto those who crave it and more to those who chase it away.
