Growing, growing, what it is this?
It is not an orchid that blooms in the night,
It is not a rose cupped gently in a lovers palm,
It's the fog that creeps at my window,
The suns rays cut through the the mist and
When it clears there is not another life to take,
Every soul is caught,
every scream is silenced,
every heart is still.
My life led me to many places and with many faces,
I was the person who saw the world in black and white.
Respect is not earned with the heavy satisfaction of a gun,
Nor is it bought with the price of a life.
The only thing in the world, that is true my dear,
Is no one mourns the wicked,
Superiority does not save us in the end,
We all flare to life,
We all burn out.
For Death makes us all equal,
As she lays us to rest,
6 feet underground.
Copyright © 2013 by Sarah Dean
All rights reserved.