Poetry

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Look there is a dead bird,
Must had hit the window;
If only it had heard,
Warnings that did bellow.

Is it not beautiful,
It is so delicate;
Bird Heaven not that full,
That God lets through the gate.

Once it becomes too late,
Such miracles as life;
You cannot appreciate,
Because of all the strife.

You realize that nature,
Is as ruthless as man;
Counts each living creature,
But less than what God can.

Our existence frail,
Temporary and precious;
But endure and prevail,
In being courageous.

Our daily affairs,
Taking it for granted;
Shrugging off all the dares,
Advantageously slanted.

All for granted we take,
Acting so thoughtlessly;
For God would not forsake,
Not intentionally.

Maybe once we mature,
Into our next life;
Comprehension will cure,
Far from toils and strife.


Copyright © 2013 Richard Newton Sherrer

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