Every time I go to bed
I go to my death
grim is not the thought
but knowing not the fate scribed
whether I wake, or forever slumber
a destiny manipulated
by invisible hand of God
or whoever spins the wheel
shall be what will
I breathe, I breathe.
I fear not as I lay down
the weary head and soul
I shall wake whether or not I like
such destiny beyond a human grasp.
Go, be gone, flit like the temporary life
of bees and butterflies
who learn from a young age
what a waste it is not to smell the roses.
The living day to day.
Each day as though a gift
learn not to waste it at all.
Every morning born a new
every night crumble and fall
like the Phoenix from ashes
where others shall burn.

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