Every life is a short life;
every thing has a shelf-life;
every journey is finite;
for every morning
there must be a night;
every artist has a muse;
everybody has always
got something to lose;
for every mystery
there are always clues;
everybody at some point
imagines what it would be like
to walk in somebody else’s shoes.
Everyone has a shadow;
every new life is a beacon of light;
everyone has a clock
ticking down slowly to zero;
everyone has a secret birthright;
every day we listen;
every day we speak;
every day we read the written;
every day we all must trust
and believe that our lives and we
are meant to be as we are;
every thing that can be created and destroyed
should be marveled at with awe like a star,
because though the memory
and the spirit of something may survive
and live forever after death,
the shell and the body
that surrounds and protects something
has but a short time
until it must break apart
and reveal the true energy inside
that has been waiting so long
to emerge from the dark.
Like the light of the moon
on a star-lit winter night;
like a beam of sunlight
bursting through the clouds
after a shower of rain has fell;
like the spell that changes you forever
that is “love at first-sight”;
like the wish that comes true
after you hope with all your heart
and throw a token of you
into life’s celestial wishing-well;
so much is evanescent,
so much is momentary,
transient, temporary, and brief,
the rules of life,
and the time that we all
have to do what we must,
can only be compared
to the sight and the life of a tree
and its falling leaves
that change over time –
and like every living thing,
and like every living person,
everything has a reason to be…
even though their life-span
in comparison shares so much
with the life and the fate
of the ephemeral mayfly.
Mark The Poet 