The Poet On The Hill

The poet on the hill

Sits still

And ponders why

Man must die.

The weather is fine

nature or the divine

causes the sun to shine.

Every living thing

Will have it’s spring.

The newly opened flower

time will devour.

The blossom’s heady scent,

is quickly spent.

Men soon disperse

We are lent this earth.

All must enter the dark wood

The bad along with the good.

The poet continues to ponder

While yonder

The light begins to fade.

Man’s destiny is the grave.