For man is created, born to his
parents
Man is tuned for life, natured by his
parents
The outcome of which always varies.
He may turn up the saint of saints,
holier than thou; or
A caricature of one lucipher, an envy
of the underworld.
The pacesetter maybe unfolded, a
beacon, an epitome of mannerism; or
A barbaric, uncouth and true
definition of hogwash; a failure.
These all are but fabrics…
Stitched up into a garment; a man.
For man is but a plant,
Developing from a sown seed,
germinating into a grown tree.
Man is affected by the seasons, most
beautiful at spring
Warthog-ugly at fall, without a single
leaf.
Like the plant he is, man blooms,
blossoms;
The most beautiful of flowers sprout,
When the conditions are right.
Like the plant he is, man withers;
Dies the most painful of prolonged
deaths,
When exposed to tough and harsh
conditions.
For man dies, his life ends.
Sometimes abruptly, a plant uprooted.
Sometimes slowly, a plant withering,
A garment wearing off, stitch by
stitch, fabric by fabric.
A man I know is on this course, lost
the leaf of love,
Lost the smooth silk fabric lining,
A plant’s most beautiful and bright
flower already shed.
Indeed, dust
to dust.
