A MAN; Dust to Dust.

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.