_Our Vine_

I do not hold such powers

Such ability to be above the rest,

I am as the next,

A vessel before the grave

An man who shall face death.

Though riches can be

And fame can be,

Neither brings partition

From the end,

Neither does it keep our breath.

Though I can work,

Till my fingers are of bone

And my brows covered in dust,

The final hour shall ring

And no more shall I call this home.

All,

Must bow before their feebleness

For we all secrete like beasts

And squirm

In the gift of life like worms,

None, knowing what shall be,

But that we shall fall,

Never to breathe.

Silly,

We can be,

Praising man for his wealth

For his abundance of material

His charism by popularity.

Only to forget,

He bares no ability

To heal the aching

The dying

Or hold himself upon earth

In eternity.

We are fools to be acting as such,

We are so often crushed

Whimpering

And failing.

Though we are creatures of design

Of beauty

And lovers of rhyme

And creatives by the divine.

We forget,

Our days are numbered,

Like the grapes,

Hanging from the vine.