With the breath of life comes the mark of time.
Age, death, and decay give life the transience that renders it so precious.
That beauty lives to fleet has no reason to it nor rhyme.
In poetry, only that which breathes can be left so breathless.
I marvel at the allure of a rose, hanging held by its stem.
Lamenting the wondrous bloom, fated to come to pass.
Watching rolling ruby dewdrops that glitter like fiery gems.
A vivid blossom bursting with life I lay down on a bed of grass.

From a babe comes a boy, then a man in the prime of his life.
As a frail bud bursts forth, captivating all in her wake.
Man’s wrinkled skin and brittle bones soon bring him his strife.
The gentle bloom falls with nary the strength to quiver nor quake.
In the breadth of dying breaths, a man graced to be strong falls to blight.
A flower once blessed to be beautiful rests on the ground as she wilts out of sight.