Autumn leaves look beautiful
As they cascade to the ground,
Golden, yellow, red and brown,
Gloriously crumbling to dust.
Shooting stars are a magnificent spectacle
We all admire
With loud shouts of glee.
In reality, they're just pieces of rock,
Crashing down at high velocity.
They say that the coal
The most pressure shall turn to precious stone.
But what of the one that couldn't take it,
And simply ceased to exist?
Winners write the gloried pages
And tell stories of their conquests
And legends and yore.
But what of the man who lost the war?
Those who succeed in life
Feel they haven't lived,
And those who don't, deeply regret it.
Then what is the point,
Of this endless race to be the best?
If I have no guarantee that
And if nothing breathes into me hope,
Then what point is there
In staying trapped in this endless circle of life?
If death is what is admired,
In leaves and comets alike,
And if songs are sung of poets
Only after they pass,
Then why should I bother with life?
If reverence is for those who's bodies
Are deep in the ground,
Then I think I'd rather lie down right now
Nestled in the earth's warm chest,
And sleep forever in eternal bliss.