The concrete so cold and so dry,
A nightingale sings a few feet nigh,
A Chamomile reaches for air anew,
This prologue of nature is scarce new;
For it cast away all memory of ill respite,
Now only the product whereof is gain despite
Such meagre memory that shakes mine eye
Whose veined image can never me dye,
Nor can tears alone from colour remove,
Nor contacts can mask mine eyes what move,
This notion I now know is but new motion;
Take mine existence for granted to own,
And everything between birth and death
Shall all but few woes come relevance not,
Lest mine own is part, lest I am forgot,
Nor am I. The scene of rain now dries me,
All the birds have stopped. They’re now we.
So we, are but we, and little are so thought,
Now it all comes to past, tis past, all brought.
Imagine a soul parting from thee and flows,
It flows down and downward. It doesn’t throw.
Now we’re gone. It’s all gone. No more meds.
‘Twas all gone. Morals. Thought. To you who gets
The art of water on my dried corpse is sung,
Now I flow away. Everything washes away to song.

Category:
Life, Poetry, Works
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