The limb is slowly dying
There’s no shying from the truth
Just like there's no relying
On the vigor of our youth
Our time to bloom is fleeting
Belay bleating when the fruit
Is rapidly retreating
And the branch is destitute
Embrace each chance to savor
All the flavor and the pulp
A fruitful feast will favor
People more inclined to gulp
And any seeds worth sowing
Should be going in the ground
So nurtured vessels growing
Have new fruits to be found.
Are You Reading Me?
No comments:
Post a Comment