Grabbing my shades of yellow,
I used to paint the sun,
that peeped up from low valleys
when the day had just begun.
Then I took all hues of blue,
and filled them in the sky
where a lonely tree would stand,
and the birds would sing and fly.
The greens I saved for grasses,
and the reds were for the flowers,
But now in place of all these things,
now stand sky reaching towers.
And I thought I couldn't paint,
for I grew up and lost my art,
but I know my brush still aches,
for the colors dear to my heart.
So bring me blues skies if you can,
and I'll paint from sun to ground.
But the truth is that I cannot paint,
because my colors can't be found.

Perhaps the problem is we live as though we have an eternity to fall in love, to have everything we want,
to be able to fix all the problems we ignore and to apologize to those we hurt.  We live as though we are more than stellar fragments afloat in the immensity of space and time.
The problem is that we continue living this way until the last insignificant second when we finally hear the chimes of the cosmic harmonies calling us back home and then, we will be nothing but a wisp of nebulosity from gas and dust from whence we came,
scattered through space unfettered by ordinary human limitations.

How will you spend your brief moments here on earth?
How much will you love?
How much will you give?
How will you be remembered?