• Angels fly as demons roam,
    life its self is not anyone's home,
    you sprout wings and fly away,
    and will not come back another day,

    you can live forever,
    or even never,
    as you soar up high,
    in the light blue sky,
    some choose to stay,
    as others go out and play,
    dance, fly, run and sing,
    trance, cry, fun, and bring,
    life its self is not anyone's home,

    horses run out in the meadows,
    and fish swing in the clear waters,
    birds soar in the cloudless sky,
    and we are a circle, one, and yet die,

    love ones vanish, dissapear,
    and yet they are one in our hearts,
    this last poem may not ryme,
    but whatever.
    kb