Nature's Pattern
Through the forgotten meadows
of nature;
For the wind whom grazes on
grass more often,
And the tears fallen from the
sky;
A purpose out of our knowledge.
A sunset leaving at pleasant
ease,
Before guiding our last dove to
its nest.
A sense of harmony; nature
plays it best.
Our minds choose to provide us
with a guise;
Only the morning light could
satisfy our hymns.
A synchronized melody;
At which the inferior dove will
sing for its children.
However this sacred idea;
Another selfish cling to our souls.
The pattern made obvious; even
to the blind,
But we'd rather scatter the
ashes of reality;
For it is our superior nature,
that plays a lesser role in what
nature really is;
However I'd rather burn this
page,
and leave its ashes somewhere
in our forgotten meadows.
Maybe then would nature be at
peace with the next blank page
in our arrogant minds.
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