THE CYCLE

The kindness that draws A spirit closer to home
The mindlessness, flaws That makes us our own

Are all part of people Those lost and those found
None reaching the steeple But all heaven bound

Please do not fear Of ending alone
It has you, my dear You shall not be stoned

This is so primitive The way we were made
To fear the derivative As we all slowly fade

But to become one As we all surely will
And return to the sun where were finally filled

Is the destiny of all who take breath
With the flight of a dove We are made pure by death

This poem is about: 
Our world
Poetry Terms Demonstrated: 

Comments

Need to talk?

If you ever need help or support, we trust CrisisTextline.org for people dealing with depression. Text HOME to 741741