I take to the dwindling
amount of eras of time itself
like a willing victim
I am impressed how the rose bloomed then flushed her
beauty
like **** down on to the ground
all wilted
with neither a care
nor a thought
and went on to create a new one
and how day by day the sun is birthed
to get replaced
by an equally beautiful moon
and  the cycled rhythm
is like a poem
written by a god or goddess
in the sky and clouds
fly and birds are fleeting
like my words so
versed
all of it
death and nature's
tense and seeming indifference
is all so genuine
so normal
so great