Out of the womb, seeds planted grown <br />From first breath, to its last. <br />Going about, ones daily chores <br />of that given, life long <br />inner, programed tasks. <br /> <br />To sometimes, do the impossible <br />and the grave, viewed not, yet be its goal. <br />In order to gain, if only a moments touch <br />what is thought too own, of gold. <br /> <br />And yet, in end, to see it clearer <br />then, all in time, to fade away. <br />Maybe finding, ones spiritual connection <br />in their own, deep Godly kind of way. <br /> <br />A man is not old, until he regrets <br />that real life, takes the place of dreams. <br />Yet when deeply, thought of such <br />it is just how, for you is seemed. <br /> <br />Life is all too real for many <br />and then for others, not at all. <br />Like the hands upon, a ticking clock <br />movements, when wound <br />just time passing, on mantel or a wall. <br /> <br />What is born, all passes, in preprogrammed, provided time <br />like flowers seeded, planted earth. <br />All for another yet experience, in their time <br />incased in their own birth.<br /><br />Linda Winchell<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/what-is-born/
