Human Fratility And Futility. Poem by Connor Brown

I walk to the forest green,
Meet the trees,
Discuss the day at hand,
Not tomorrow
For tomorrow is a new day,
Unknown to me is what it brings

The sun, burns I,
But the trees do not wince,
They do not feel the heat,
Or if they do, they dare not show it,
So here, I’ll lay, write the works I was’ born to write,
And Love the ones I was born to love.

The wind is blowing now, it pushes any warmth that the suns glare brought,
Away, to become only memory, and to be recalled as soon as it dies,
And I wonder, only for a moment,
If the wind too,
Was born to push the sun,
Away from the trees,
Cooling them,
Just as their hold on the pain the sun brought begins to break,
And maybe the trees
Only grew to endure,
To survive the pain,
The heat,

Ah, and now the wind fades, and the sun starts it’s glare once more
And the trees,
Stay silent,
And so I wonder,
Pondering in the infinite wisdom
Brought by the nature around,
What If my only purpose was to endure the things that tomorrow brings?
What would I do then,
For what if the next day brought my death?
The death of the trees?
Who would endure the pain?
Who would withstand the things brought by the morrow?

I close my eyes,
Contemplating the earth round’ me,
Wondering what if there was no one to endure, no one to survive,
What would be the point of life?
Ah, Human Futility.