Is life an allegory or a lesson grand?
Are men alone, or held by a Devine’s Hand?
In Spring life is born to grow only to fade in Autumns Fire,
To face the cold hand of winter death, alone with no one to light her funeral pyre.
Is each ones path but a season, their birth their spring?
Do we bloom only to die?
Our legacy a memory, in others souls the seeds we sew, to grow where only thoughts may go.
So when we pass from our time, may our life exist in others minds, even as a simple, pleasant rhyme.
