Close Calls

It is a trampling field,

This life we call our own,

Battling the phones and the,

Lines that disappear on,

Their own. Traveling byways,

Of great depression,

Snow through the doldrum,

Irradicating the maelstrom,

Of complication inside another,

System of its' own,

The sun shining on the grain,

Passing through another wasted day,

It all happens so quickly, and cannot be forgotten,

Like the whispers of a tree.

Life is very delicate like the whisps of a cloud,

Bombarding us with its rays of happiness!,

Extending its pleasantries,

In a world full of chaos and despair,

So goes the circle of life.