As the pearl tuft in the sky gives way,
To the cancerous mass of black and grey,
The sky eclipsed by the abrupt invasion,
The sun struggling to fight the occupation,
Of the infinitely dense creeping shroud,
Suffocating the benign little cloud,
As its fragile cotton breaks apart,
The change from day to night does start.
But night to day must too give way,
With new clouds against a cerulean display,
The interplay between the light and the dark,
A reminder of the inconstancy so stark,
Just as the frigid breath of tempestuous winter surely will,
Succeed the crisp auburn leaves of an autumn so still,
As the infinite sea of dizzying blooms of spring,
Does the scorching, sizzling sighs of summer bring.
Oh the treacherous tricks that Nature does play,
As whatever it does give it will surely take away,
And only return it at some moment inopportune,
To our hunger for constancy so ruthlessly immune,
Why does the exquisitely mild and mellow spring day,
Never come around forever to stay?
And the light not for evermore engulf the darkness?
Instead of ceding to the black mantle so lifeless.
Why must time wither the youth and beauty of all things,
Only to it re-create it in newer beings?
And if the plump pertness of youth does fade away,
Why does Nature not its own rules obey?
And regularly return it to the self-same thing,
As to the same earth it always gifts the spring,
Or is there a chance that after we die and decay,
We will be re-born in an impeccable way?