These Days

These days
Are short in number
From the time
Our minds can
Realize
All worry
Is a wasted effort
Which hastens
Nothing
But pain

Despite
How hearts can change
Over spans
Of years
Turning decades
Into journeys
Riddled with failure
That is purpose
Taking
Its toll

From balance
Playing our parts
As agony learns
What we witness
Is sacrifice
Making us
Better
To admire
Death
As a whole

Like deer
Within endless woods
Quiet
Content to be waiting
For their hunter
Bound
To be killing
Such fragile
Souls
That are weak

Upon faith
With gentle hooves
Among leaves
So fallen
And desparate
To be one
With this ground
Below them
As they struggle
Through colorful bliss

Proving
Hurt doesn’t end
As loss
Is a season
Grieving
Where beauty
Is cyclically
Fated
By nature
Alive but brief.

– J. Pigno

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