Barks bound on trees, parks full of trees
What could be? A flower invaded by a bee
What is the price of life, if old age is the only gift of a lifetime.
Voids are silent and so are some voices.
What could be? Vices are scorned, yet no one is perfect.
Picture me under the shade of your thoughts, how colorful am I.
The sequel of season, the mood of wrath, the death of virtue.
What could be? A bird with a wounded wing,
The first worm, the crack of dawn.
In the middle of a somber evening, a folding day, ants upon it’s bones.
What could be? Some men are supreme, some gods inferior.
Clearly we don’t get.
so close your eyes, take a nap, worry not of what could be.