When in the crisp of a fall morning,

the scent of burning leaves nearby

we might acknowledge own mourning

passage, our yearn of a seasonal sky

~

Our lives in a constant profiled balance

we cannot forget our own human being

exists in realistic terms, not just chance,

that our encounters have little meaning.

~

Much like the rotation of our morning sun

can we establish some new momentum

one that peace and love to speak upon

with little regard for hyppocratic ultimatum

~

Would we be the same today as yesterday

might now we choose to live another way.